


Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)

by random_flores



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 116,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and  with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You and I Go Hard At Each Other Like We’re Going To War

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.

It begins with a slap. Of course it does. 

Except maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it begins with a twitch of bee-stung lips; with hooded dark eyes that hide a brimming loneliness almost ( _almost_ ) forgotten when paired with blinding white teeth and a smile that is too practiced and plastic to be anything but manufactured. 

It’s Santana Lopez playing a part, you see. Just like when her best friend was closeted, miserable and mean. A return to form for the Kentucky cheerleader, now stunning in ways the Cheerios outfits never allowed. 

It’s ridiculous to Quinn that she’s the only one who sees it. 

But then again, maybe she’s the only one who possibly could. 

Quinn’s reality is a fabricated fantasy. She’s known too much heartbreak in her young life to even think it could be anything else, but she has indulged herself because she wants so badly to believe it. 

So she plays the part. Quinn, who will forever try to escape the ghost of Lucy, is over-confident and over-compensates. She secretly marvels that no one sees it. Her friends, who self-professed family who claim to know her best, listen to her bragging with not a doubt among them. They look so damn proud, so happy for her as she weaves her tales of success. They see the image she creates and it’s addicting. It’s so much better than the truth. 

In Kitty’s worshiping eyes, Quinn finds her bliss and the chance to remodel her history. 

That same group sees Brittany and Santana as two halves of a whole. They don’t remember, or possibly never knew, that before Brittany skipped into high school as a sophomore with her rainbows and sunshine and quirky insanity that captivated Santana so effortlessly, it had been Quinn and Santana that had been attached at the elbow. Best friends since cheer camp freshman year; an uneasy alliance formed due to a determination to rule the school. 

It’s not the same. With Brittany, Santana is marshmallows and fluff, dimpled besotted smiles and sweet loving affection. With Brittany, it’s love. 

It’s not love with Quinn. It’s not soft or sweet and even though Santana’s dimples poke through her olive cheeks when she leans over the piano and regards Quinn with her plastic smile, the impact of her beauty fades thanks to the pure rancor in her expression. 

They slap each other. Of course they do. 

In Santana, Quinn remembers every mistake; every weakness. Santana’s smile cracks with her own insecurity, and yet she’s the only one who knows exactly what to say, using her words as a well sharpened scalpel, digging deep inside of Quinn to stab at the very heart of her, causing so much pain she’s caught breathless, left gasping like a choking fish. 

Santana’s palm imprints on her cheek. The flesh is swollen and heated, and stings with hot, angry tears slide over it. 

Quinn leaves Brittany with Santana and walks through those familiar hallways alone. 

She thinks about Santana and her mask of pain and loneliness. 

She wonders why she hates it so much. 

************

Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them. 

But how could it, when it began with a slap? 

************

New Directions loses Sectionals for the first time since their inception sophomore year. 

It’s almost surreal; the way Quinn feels so outside of this. The rest of the mentors, her fellow graduates, look as stricken as the kids who actually performed. She keeps to herself at the back of the room, delicate arms folded across her chest as she wonders when high school became so _young_ , when it felt that these kids are so absorbed in their own petty problems that seem so miniscule and ridiculous in comparison to what she and her fellow graduates went through. A girl has fainted and even still, the others shift the blame and conceit. Brittany, who looks oddly younger than she ever has before, huddles closely to Sam. He looks so proud of that fact that he neglects to notice the longing and jealous looks Brittany’s blue eyes float across the room to Santana, who is currently focused instead on her own mentee, Marley. 

Quinn’s mouth twitches with distaste. This is the girl who was supposed to be the new Rachel? She’s young and frail, and at Sectionals, where Rachel swallowed her nerves and blasted out the most amazing rendition of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ Quinn’s ever heard, this one collapsed at the back of the stage before she even got her chance to open her mouth. Marley just looks so damn _young_ , her pale face crippled with shame and regret. In this room, Santana and young Puck Jr. are her only protectors. With her palm pressing gently against the small of Marley’s back, Quinn’s ‘friend’ whispers quiet words into Marley’s ears that are probably meant to be reassuring. 

Quinn supposes she should feel sorry for Marley. She knows from experience that the pressure to carry a lead at Sectionals can be intense. She can only imagine how much harder it is coming off a win at Nationals, with expectations at an all-time high. 

She doesn’t feel pity. Instead, all there is is an odd sort of apathy. It’s an unsettling experience. To be here, to be in this choir room and feel absolutely nothing is something she never quite expected. She thinks of Yale; old brick walls and vines that wrap around buildings, musty libraries and David, with his booming voice, his pipe and his rough calloused hands. 

Quinn is a young girl from a small town who in the scope of things, perhaps doesn’t know very much at all. Her classmates together have so much more world experience, so much _knowledge_. They stare at her with her small town hair and small town clothes and see a child. In her first few months at Yale, Quinn has never felt so small and unimportant. It’s why David is a godsend. David is the first to see her as a desirable woman, and not this damaged child. He calls her an old soul. He makes her feel comfortable and at the same time so regal and beyond herself. The temptation and euphoria fits her like a glove. 

Here in Lima, nothing changes. She stays in a tiny bedroom in her mother’s house that is full of nothing but disappointing memories and a wheelchair stuffed in a closet that’s saved for a ‘just in case’ relapse. 

She understands now, what Rachel meant when she emailed her and told her that Lima just did not feel like home anymore. 

It’s curious. The only times she’s felt anything resembling affection and nostalgia since her return happened on that empty stage, during an impromptu Unholy Trinity performance, and later in a conversation that devolved into a slap fight between her and Santana. 

Mr. Schuester claps his hands together, drawing the attention of her peers. “Come on!” he sighs, defeat in his voice as he waves his palm to the door. “We need to be good sports and get out there; congratulate the winning team.” In light of how they lost, it seems slightly ridiculous, but true to form, his students file out. They’re quiet and devastated, a funeral march that passes by her. The suddenly maternal, oddly passive version of Santana glares at Kitty and gently helps Marley up off the seat, handing her off like a gentlewoman to Jacob. In the action, her eyes catch Quinn. 

Quinn arches a brow, but does not move. 

Neither does Santana. 

The choir room is quiet in the absence of the rest of the group, odd considering the sheer amount of songs that float regularly through this place. Still, Quinn feels no inclination to break the silence. Sooner or later, Santana will speak because that’s what Santana does. 

She waits, watches those deep brown eyes as they regard her. Santana’s full lips quiver in her emotion. This has upset her, which is interesting. Santana never used to care about anything but Brittany. 

“You know, your girl did this,” she breathes, pointing an accusing finger in Quinn’s direction. 

It makes Quinn want to laugh. “Having fun beating that dead horse, Santana?” she responds lightly, pushing off the wall and making her way easily toward the piano. 

“Quinn, this is serious.” Santana remains on her plastic chair, but her eyes follow Quinn’s every movement. “Marley is sick.” 

“And Kitty’s magically responsible, how?” she asks blithely. “Might want to check that Mexican third eye, Santana,” she drawls, “because all I see is a scared little girl who couldn’t handle the pressure.” 

She settles against the piano, tinkering with a key or two, plonking an awkward melody. This is the point in their many confrontations where Santana will say something absolutely devastating. It’ll be a crack about David, maybe something about her past obsession with appearance. Whatever it’ll be, it will dig deep inside of her, prick her into feeling. 

It’s what she expects. God, it’s even what she wants. 

This apathy that courses through her is odd, but it’s also a little terrifying. 

Glee Club used to be her safe place. 

Now it’s just a room. 

And yet, Santana proves to be a disappointment. When Quinn hears nothing, her eyes lift and she discovers Santana staring at her with an expression on her face that makes Quinn feel like she’s looking at a stranger. 

“What the hell is going on with you, Quinn?” 

The tender, disappointed way she asks nearly chokes Quinn’s breath away. Her fingers jerk against the keys, causing the note it creates to wobble like a bad ending. 

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” she snaps, but her words are stiff, and her posture tense. “For once in my life, everything is going exactly how it’s supposed to. Maybe I’m just over all this petty high school crap.” 

She lets Santana soak it in. Hears a choked laugh and a sudden sardonic, “Whatever Quinn.” The chair grinds against the linoleum. “If a girl with an eating disorder is just too petty for you, then by all means, feel free to go back to your professor and your X-rated study sessions.”

A small, pained smile floats on her face. “At least it’s better than going back to short skirts, pom poms and being too much of a coward to admit you broke up with your girlfriend because you were afraid she’d cheat on you if you didn’t.” 

The barb is well placed. She sees them hit Santana with a jerk, watches the shoulders stiffen and the body falter. 

But Santana says nothing. She doesn’t engage. Instead, this woman who used to be her best friend, flexes her wrists and keeps walking until she’s out of the choir room. 

Quinn’s mouth trembles when she realizes she’s been left behind. 

************

Logically; rationally; she understands completely that Santana is lost. She’s heartbroken and insecure, hiding behind her quasi-celebrity status at Louisville, pretending that it’s enough even though she doesn’t have the stage that made her feel alive or her girl that made her feel love. 

It’s not. 

Santana gave up the stage so she could be closer to her girl and gave up her girl because Brittany felt abandoned. 

Maybe it’s selfish of Quinn that she has made no attempt to push past Santana’s erected walls. 

That’s what a best friend would do. 

Maybe she’s not as good of a friend as she thought because there’s an ugly bit inside of her that feels the smallest amount of satisfaction that this is the state of things. Brittany and Santana, two halves of a whole, self-declared soul mates, barely made it two months before the real world got a hold of them. 

The Unholy Trinity. Besties for Life. Except that Brittany is a freaking Peter Pan incarnate who is so scared of growing up she literally failed her senior year to avoid it and screwed over her so-called soul mate in the process. Santana is an out lesbian internet celebrity who wears this mature, bitchy façade like she’s so damn wise, but she’s too afraid to do anything but wave a pom pom for hollering meatheads and crash high school musicals. 

Is the jealousy petty? 

To stare at Santana’s beautiful face and try to remember that one moment when Quinn realized that no matter what, Brittany would always be Santana’s first choice? 

To think about those moments before Brittany, when Santana’s gaze would linger too long on her own body, her own face, her own lips? To wonder oh-so-fleetingly how those looks had terrified her in a dangerous, frightening way, flushing heat through her body and terror in her soul? 

Maybe. 

But it doesn’t matter because Quinn’s better than them. She got out. Quinn made it. She’s moved past her teenage pregnancy and quietly fighting that homo-erotic fascination with Rachel Berry and paralyzing car accidents to become more than just a cheerleader, more than Quinn Fabray. 

She did it without the Unholy Trinity and their so-called friendship, forgotten so easily when Santana fell in love, linked pinkies with Brittany and left her behind. 

She leaves Santana in her Kentucky purgatory. Quinn has her own life, and she goes back to it. 

************ 

Her pristine, gorgeous life holds steady for approximately two weeks after Thanksgiving. In that time, she’s promised a Christmas in Vermont. David thumbs his pipe and spins a gorgeous tale of a wooden cabin and dirty sex on a bear rug in front of a fire place. 

In truth, the allure of David has faded quickly. Time away has given her some perspective, and David’s class actually helps as she realizes that when she first arrived at Yale she was lonely, scared and out of her element. The first friend she made was a professor who listened and regarded her as woman. At the time, it hadn’t mattered when he had given her champagne and pressed up against her in his office. She felt worthy and validated. 

His beard, previously magnetic and interesting, now feels scratchy and intrusive. His hands, before so weathered and strong, now feel rough and abrasive. The secret liaisons that proved so thrilling during the semester now feel dirty and shameful. 

He grows careless. He forgets to take off his wedding ring. He’s not interested in her theories or her opinions as much as he is interested on getting her on her knees, unbuttoning his fly along the way. 

Santana’s words ring through her, but she tells herself that is not the reason for the shift. 

Still, her only alternative is going back to Lima and watch her mother drink herself into a Christmas stupor. 

She chooses Vermont. 

Two days before Christmas, David sends her a text message that states the plans fell through, and he must spend the holiday with his wife ‘for appearances sake’. It will make the divorce ‘less messy’ if he just does what she wants. 

Quinn wonders how she could have expected anything different. 

On Christmas Eve, she sits alone in a cold dorm room in New Haven, reading a novel called ‘Divergence’ when there is a tentative knock on her door. 

Quinn puts down the book with weathered resignation. She’s expecting Nina, a pretty German Pre-Med coed who couldn’t afford to fly home for the Holidays and spends so much time in her books she has no idea that Quinn has gained a reputation as the girl who fucks her professors. She seeks her out for the occasional movie and some friendly company and Quinn is always grateful. 

It’s not Nina that stands in her hallway. 

Instead she sees a woman bundled in an expensive trench coat, glossy black hair curling under her fur hat, with a small suitcase trailing behind her. 

It’s someone she has not spoken to since Thanksgiving. 

“Santana,” she breathes dumbly, so confused there’s nothing else she can say. 

Santana’s mouth opens for a moment, then closes just as quickly. She shifts her balance on her ridiculously high heeled boots and bites on her lower lip as she musters enough false bravado to snap, “Are you going to let me in or not?” 

She looks… small. 

It’s then that Quinn remembers a Facebook post announcement made just a week ago, in terribly misspelt words and all caps that stated to the world that Sam Evans had finally landed Brittany Pierce as his new hot girl soul mate. 

Her douche ex actually used the word ‘finally’ (or FINALEE, if she’s being literal), like the coupling was inevitable. 

Since then it’s been picture after picture of him and Brittany Pierce, cuddling and kissing and Sam gleefully telling the world that they just ‘brammed’. 

She understands immediately why Santana is standing in her hallway in New Haven and not in a hallway in McKinley back in Lima, Ohio. 

Without a word, she pulls on the knob and widens the opening, allowing Santana to push her way past her, back into her room and into her life. 

*******

They were the Unholy Trinity. They were supposed to be besties for life. 

That’s absolute fiction. 

Even though Quinn and Santana have exchanged cutting words and painful truths, even if they have scratched and bit and slapped each other, it’s the dark horse Brittany Pierce that has come from behind and managed to mangle Santana Lopez with thoughtless actions and words in such a damaging, devastating way that Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted. 

All it takes is a stupid facebook post about a Mayan Apocalypse and becoming Sam Evan’s Mayan Star Wife. 

She fucking married him. 

Screw the Unholy Trinity. Screw Brittany. 

Quinn sits on her absent roommate’s bed. She watches Santana, notes the bags under her eyes, the way her thin body shudders, the way Santana has no words in her, no way to explain why she’s here, or why she could possibly think that this is okay. 

She’s a passive shell of the person she used to be, and it makes Quinn remember the Santana of senior year; the one who went through shit and who had so much anger but who finally got the girl, got to be who she really was, got to sing on that stage at Nationals. 

God, it pisses Quinn off so much. 

Maybe it isn’t logical, to blame Brittany like this. After all, Santana is the one who dumped Brittany. And maybe someone could argue that Brittany is just trying to cope with losing Santana the only way Brittany in her Peter-Pan Unicorn world can. Maybe she’s just trying to make Santana jealous. Brittany is rainbows and sunshine, but she can be manipulative as hell.

But the reality is that no matter how many slaps and scratches are exchanged between them, no matter how many sweet Unicorn smiles Brittany gives her, if made to choose, Quinn will always choose Santana. 

She’s never actually voiced it. She doesn’t like to think about it at all. If she does, she manages a quick justification, that she knew Santana first, that Santana was HERS first. 

She was hers until Santana was Brittany’s, and this is what Brittany did with Santana and her unwavering loyalty and love. 

What’s left is this dejected, broken woman who looks like a girl. Santana sits on the floor, back resting against Quinn’s bed as she stares at the wall like a catatonic zombie, eyes too dry to cry, fingers rubbed raw from rubbing against each other, because that’s what Santana does when she’s insecure and nervous. 

If this is some fucked up way to wake Santana up and get her to come back, then fuck Brittany Pierce, because what she’s done instead is destroyed her and left Quinn to pick up the pieces. 

And if she’s actually serious; if she actually believes that the world is ending, and the first thing she did was marry Sam Evans instead of tracking down her supposed soul mate and spending her last days with HER? 

Fuck her more. 

The Unholy Trinity is a crock. 

It’s utter shit. Quinn doesn’t know what to do. 

She bites down on her lower lip, hesitates only a moment before she pushes off the bed and crosses the room. With deliberate, slow movements, Quinn lowers herself until she’s seated beside Santana. 

Her eyes do not stray from that wall, but Quinn’s fingers shift carefully, until they’re sliding over cold, clammy hands. She doesn’t look as Santana’s palm overturns; their fingers interlock, a desperate movement of absolutely trust. 

Quinn’s sucks in a shaky, hesitant breath. 

She knows she’s a buoy now, clinging onto Santana to keep her friend from drowning. 

It’s just Santana and Quinn now, just like it was. 

Quinn’s just fine with that.


	2. You and I Get So Damn Dysfunctional We Stopped Keeping Score

Her dorms are abandoned for the most part, and silent. Quinn’s reading playlist, a mix of classical music and the soul soothing jazz, streams from her computer before the machine goes to sleep from lack of activity. When the music fades, all she can hear are soft thuds and whistles, weather from outside. 

Sometime in the course of the afternoon, the other woman has fallen asleep, tipped over and slumped into Quinn, beaten it seems by sheer exhaustion. She’s so tired she snores lightly, breath flowing evenly against Quinn’s collarbone, head heavy against her shoulder. Santana’s fingers stay entwined with hers. When Quinn shifts, she twitches and tightens the hold. 

So Quinn doesn’t move. Even when her leg tingles, threatening to fall asleep, and her back aches, she stays put and with her free hand reads from the book she manages to pillage from the bed they’re resting against. It’s awkward when she tries to shift the pages, but she manages. 

Santana’s perfume lingers, but the travel has mingled the scent with the outdoors and the slight musk of sweat. Quinn’s focus is distracted from her pages when she glances over and notices Santana’s flaring nose, her fluttering eyelids. Even from this angle she’s gorgeous and for the millionth time Quinn is overtaken by the effortless natural beauty of her friend. 

Santana’s chest rises and falls, her breasts push against her white button down. From this angle, Quinn has a fabulous view of Santana’s perfect man-made cleavage. She looks now, eyes dragging like fingertips over the soft skin, bulbs that shift at this angle against each other. The nude of Santana’s lacy cups cover only where the color begins to shift, near Santana’s nipples. They’re perfect, gorgeous breasts, and Quinn’s breath catches at the sight of them. 

It’s funny to think of the disdain she felt the day she found out about the operation. Quinn, who literally carved herself a new face and identity, was so disappointed in Santana, her model of perfection. 

She betrayed her for a Captaincy.

It’s so stupid now. 

Steps float down the hallway, slow at her doorway, before she hears a knock. 

Santana stirs, and Quinn winces as she moves. Brown eyes open, blink sleepily before they focus on her face. Quinn’s heart pounds oddly before she whispers, “I have to get the door.” 

Santana’s lids are heavy from her nap, but she moves off of her. Quinn’s foot tingles with actual pain as the blood begins to recirculate. She doesn’t look or feel very graceful as she hobbles to the door. Her fingers twitch. 

She can feel Santana’s eyes at her back. 

*********

It’s Nina of course, who smiles brightly and asks in her charming accent if she feels up to some take out. Quinn is left with the awkwardness of having to explain her sudden companion without giving too much away, and thankfully, Nina seems only mildly disappointed. She wishes her friend a Merry Christmas and shuts the door, closing her and Santana back into her tiny room. 

In the time it takes for Quinn to quietly dismiss her friend, Santana has picked up her half-read book. When Quinn turns back, she discovers Santana thumbing through the pages haphazardly, losing Quinn’s place before the other woman dumps the book back on the bed. 

The action annoys her. She decides she’s tired of waiting. 

“So,” she begins, palms pressed flat against the door as she regards the sleepy, weepy Santana. “Are we going to talk about this?” 

Santana’s head lifts. She’s a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed and frightened. 

Their eyes lock and hold. 

It’s Santana that looks away first. 

“I need a fucking drink. Does this hellhole have a bar?” 

Quinn’s chin lifts. 

*********

They brave the chilly New Haven cold long enough to get to Firehouse 12, a bar she was taken to on her first night out with David. Quinn smiles her way past the bouncer with her fake ID (there is absolutely no surprise that Santana has her own) and then leads Santana into the brick building and downstairs to the dark, secluded bar. It’s Christmas Eve, and the only patrons are college orphans and singles who nurse drinks and practically radiate depression. 

And now she’s just like them. In a bar on Christmas Eve with a girl who may as well scream ‘Needy, Desperate and determined to Drink and Fuck the Pain Away.’ Awesome. 

The couch they curl into is intimate and comfortable. Quinn unwinds the scarf from her neck, eyes narrowed as she observes Santana already snapping her fingers, ordering a shot of ice cold Patron. 

Wow. Starting early. Quinn exhales and when the waitress glances at her, orders her usual champagne. 

“Uh yeah, no,” Santana snaps, and shakes her head belligerently. “Bring her a shot.” 

“The champagne is fine,” she says firmly, eyes on the waitress so there is no misunderstanding. “Thank you.” 

“Seriously?” Santana asks in the wake of the departing waitress, full lips pouty and annoyed at Quinn’s square, polite order. 

“Yes, Seriously,” she answers evenly, and then falls silent, eyes on Santana as the other woman glances over the bar, observing the tiny corners, the dark shadows, the romantic ambiance of the bar. “How many times have you given your Nutty Professor hand jobs on these couches?” 

Her body flushes, her cheeks stain. The anger ripples, and oddly, Quinn fights it. She’s not in the mood to start this. It’s too soon. The image of Santana, broken and fragile on her floor, is too fresh. “Not once.” 

“Pity,” Santana remarks, brow arching at the response. “Because that’s probably what he wanted when he brought you here.” 

For a lesbian, Santana knows men pretty well. Quinn finds herself fighting a slow, sad smile. “It wasn’t for lack of trying.” 

Santana blinks, thrown at the candor. Quinn is rewarded with a blinding, sinister smile of her own. “Yeah?” 

Quinn’s fingers brush against her palm as she nods, tucking her feet underneath her as she accepts the champagne from the waitress. 

“God, what an asshole.” 

Quinn doesn’t disagree. Her eyes linger on her friend, watches long fingers curling around the shot glass, tipping liquid into her puckered mouth. Santana’s tongue darts out, licking any lingering moisture from her bottom lip. 

Santana immediately asks for another. 

Quinn has yet to take a sip of champagne. “So this is what you’re going to do,” she finds herself saying, chest heavy with the realization. “You’re going to drink yourself into a stupor just to avoid talking.” 

The liquor seems to have improved Santana’s mood. She licks tequila from her finger tips, sucks on a lime, and avoids looking at Quinn. “What, do they not have keggers at Yale?” 

The second shot comes. This time, Santana orders another immediately. The waitress glances uncertainly at Quinn. The glass presses against her mouth, and she nods silently. She isn’t Santana’s keeper. 

The champagne bubbles on Quinn’s tongue. She takes a hard gulp, and steels herself. “You don’t get to do that, Santana,” she says quietly. Santana’s eyes flicker at her, then dart away. “You showed up at MY door, remember? Without warning, without notice.” 

Santana nearly misses aim as she sucks down the drink. She giggles, catching the spilled tequila with her fingers, and swiveling. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaims, all dramatics and insincerity. “Did I just totally infringe on your super amazing Christmas plans? Because I don’t exactly see Professor XXX hanging around. Or anyone for that matter.” 

Quinn lets the sour taste of the champagne linger on her tongue. “Why would I need anyone when I have you to be with, sucking down three shots in five minutes?” she asks sweetly, before the champagne glass comes down. 

Santana falters. Her curls bounce as she stares at the last shot that is currently between them. Her eyes, now glassy from the liquor taking affect, shine brightly. “It’ll be four unless you take this one from me.” 

She grabs hold of the shot, and with an impish smile, raises it in Quinn’s direction. 

It takes a moment to sink in. 

Quinn’s eyes flicker from the shot to her friend. “Are you kidding?” she asks, disbelief coating her voice with frustration. 

“Nope.” Santana’s damn tongue comes out one more time, before she sucks it in the back of her mouth as her smile grows wider. “Come ON, Quinnie,” she whines. “It’s Christmas Eve! Look, I’ll even help!” 

Quinn is unprepared when Santana shifts in closer. Her champagne sloshes all over as Santana lifts and lowers herself on Quinn’s thighs, settling her weight onto Quinn’s lap.

“Santana!” she squeaks. “What the hell?!” 

It’s Christmas Eve, and Santana Lopez has straddled her in a bar. Quinn bucks, but Santana rides her easily, and just the very idea has her heart thumping hard against her chest. 

“Nope!” Santana says, with this crystal laugh that reminds her so much of high school. The button down shirt once again pulls her focus. Santana’s breasts brush up against her chest as she smiles, that shot glass dripping liquid down Santana’s fingers. “Open up. I’m helping.” 

Logically, rationally, she understands that this is Santana trying to distract her. Drown her pain and avoid the problem. Classic Santana. She studied this in class. She did. 

“Santana, this isn’t funny.” Quinn doesn’t know where to put her hands. Santana’s thighs blanket her own, keeping her pinned on the couch. Her friend’s forehead is tipped against hers, and her breath smells of liquor and mint. 

“If you don’t drink it, then I will.” Santana’s shoulders lift innocently, and it’s blackmail. She’s blackmailing her. 

Dammit. 

“It’s just one shot Quinn,” Santana says, the very devil herself. 

Quinn’s fluttering hands finally settle on Santana’s waist. Santana’s hips rotate against her own. It makes her eyes roll, her cheeks flush. She knows Santana’s watching her intently. 

It’s just one shot. 

“We need to talk eventually,” Quinn breathes, but Santana’s smile widens, because she knows she’s won this. 

“Merry Fucking Christmas, Quinn,” she whispers, and then fingers are smoothing against Quinn’s chin, applying just enough light pressure to tip burning cold liquid into Quinn’s mouth. 

Quinn’s fingers twitch and tighten. Her eyes water and the sensations overwhelm her as the sour lemon wedge is pressed into her mouth with liquor soaked fingers. Her tongue brushes against Santana’s fingers. 

“God that was hot, Quinn.” 

She’s immediately lightheaded, and so involved in recovering from the shot she has no strength to argue when she hears Santana call out, “I need two more.” 

*********

She doesn’t know how much time has passed. It could be twenty minutes. It could be an hour. What she does know is what it feels like to have Santana drag her tongue slowly against the column of her throat. She knows the feeling of sticky, salty residue against her skin. She’s familiar with the weight of Santana’s small body and how it curls against her, and she knows her tongue is numb with lime and liquor. 

She also knows that she’s drunk. 

What she doesn’t know is how the hell they got back from the bar, or why the hell she’s shushing Santana so loudly when there’s no one in the actual dorms. 

“SHH!” she says again, because it still feels terribly important. It’s not important enough, however, that she can’t help but dissolve into giggles immediately after. “No, seriously, shhh!” she says, and laughs again when Santana crumbles against her in a fit of laughter. “This is YALE!” she insists, ever the model of decorum. “We have noise rules and stuff.” 

“Shhhh!” Santana agrees and presses her salty, lemony fingers against Quinn’s lips. 

Santana’s fingers taste delicious. They taste really delicious, and that is NOT supposed to be what she is thinking. 

It’s really annoying that that’s what she’s thinking. 

She’s battled the annoyance the entire night, because the part of her that’s still lucid recognizes that she is an angry drunk. 

It’s so hard to battle it now. Santana’s beauty has never seemed so insurmountable before. Santana’s never been this close before. Santana’s never smelled this good or tongued salt off of Quinn’s throat and whispered how hot it was in Quinn’s ear. 

Santana’s fingers have never been this delicious. 

“Fuck,” she hears, and it’s only then that she realizes that she has actively started to suck on Santana’s fingers, tongue swiftly moving over each digit to get the taste off. 

Any other time, it would be absolutely hilarious, the effect is has on Santana. 

She’s the picture of a trembling art piece, a colored canvas brought to life but held still by the artful brushes of Quinn’s tongue against her skin. Glossy, beautiful doe eyes focus so intently on Quinn’s mouth. 

Quinn’s teeth snag hold of her index finger as she swipes against the side of it delicately. A low whine rumbles from Santana’s throat, and it sets Quinn’s body humming. 

Oh. 

She loses control when Santana’s fingers plunge in again, sinking into her mouth with such purpose it’s astonishing. They pull back and push in again, and Santana groans. 

It’s then, as Santana’s forehead tilts against her chin, her hips press Quinn against the door, that she realizes what they’re doing. 

Santana is fucking her mouth with her fingers. 

That’s what they’re doing. 

It might be okay. Maybe. Maybe this is just an inevitable conclusion, because it feels so good, and Quinn’s grinding hips agree with her. Her core burns with need and when Santana presses her knee against her, sparks snap in her brain and nearly cause her to crumple against her door. 

Fuck, she wants this. She wants where this is going. The unforgiving, relentless pressure of Santana’s hard thigh, pressing so violently against her it’s almost painful. Santana’s fingers slide out of her mouth with a wet pop, smear saliva down her cheek before her lips are slanting hungrily against Santana’s. 

Instead of a finger sliding inside her mouth, she gets Santana’s tongue plunging in with purpose and intent. The moan that rips out of Quinn is embarrassing, but she can’t even begin to care. Not when Santana’s lips slide hotly against hers, not when she’s sucking on that dangerous muscle that is so often Santana’s most dangerous weapon. It’s a dirty, lewd first kiss, and Quinn’s violent drunken impulses take hold when she fumbles between them to rip at Santana’s damn distracting button down shirt, tearing it open to get her hands on Santana’s perfect breasts. 

“Oh, crap! Sorry!” 

It’s not Santana who says it. Quinn’s eyes fly open, but in her drunkenness state her reaction timing is slow, and it takes a moment to register that it is Nina who is backpedaling down the hallway so quickly she nearly trips on her own boots. 

Oh. “Crap,” she whispers, heart beating wildly. Quinn’s head falls back against the door as she feels Santana’s body shake with mirth against her, head curling into Quinn’s shoulder. 

At least she thinks it’s mirth. 

“Santana,” she begins carefully.

The brunette head lifts. Dark, wounded eyes streaked with tears stare at her morosely. 

It’s not mirth. 

The realization sinks her heart. “Are you seriously crying right now?” she asks, disbelief making her voice go wobbly. 

“No,” Santana sniffles and it’s so pathetic, so… stupid that Quinn’s anger surges with her intoxication. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” 

Santana’s tears are free flowing now, all that pain that manifests itself in those liquid drops. “I’m sorry! It’s just… I haven’t… I haven’t done anything with anyone since-“ 

Oh God. 

The realization brings with it such an acute nausea that Quinn has to close her eyes to keep the bile from rising. “Brittany,” she breathes. “You’re crying over Brittany.” Her fingers curl into fists. Her body flushes with absolute shame. “You’re such an idiot, Santana.” And she’s an idiot too. Her body is crusted with salt and wetness, a literal manifestation of Santana’s sadness. 

Quinn feels so stupid. “She’s not even worth it,” she breathes, because she can’t help it. She’s so damn ANGRY, and she knows that it could be because of tequila, but it’s not just the tequila. Not now. Not when her supposed best friend was just ready to fuck her against the door and was weeping her way through it because of Sam’s Mayan Star Wife. “You know that, right?” 

Weepy Santana chooses that moment to try and grow a spine. “Don’t say that! She is!” 

It’s like a kid insisting that Santa Claus is real. It’s that pathetic. 

Quinn swivels, fumbling for her key card and jerking open her door. 

“She’s an idiot,” she tosses behind her. “And you’re an idiot for loving her.” 

She gets two steps inside before a shove at her shoulder blades nearly causes her to slam headfirst into her desk. 

“Take that back!” 

Oh, hell no. Quinn steadies herself and whirls. She doesn’t think twice before she grabs hold of the girl and shoves her hard against the door. Santana stumbles, crashes and barely manages to stay on her feet. 

And still, she glares, moisture in her eyes making them sparkle like angry jewels. She’s infuriatingly beautiful in her faith, jacket and shirt splayed open, torso on display like a taunt of what Quinn will never have. 

“It’ll be a cold day in hell, Santana.” 

“It’s not true!” Santana snaps. “Take it back!” 

Quinn laughs. She can’t help it. It’s just too stupid and pathetic and why the hell should she care so much? “Then why the hell are you HERE, Santana?” she snaps. “Why aren’t you in Lima? Oh, that’s right! Because she’s just spent four days having an End-of-The-World-Sex marathon with the Blonde Forest Gump!” 

Santana flinches and it makes Quinn happy to see it. Santana has no recovery quip now. It’s just the weepy tears that coast silently down her cheeks. 

“What were you going to do?” she asks suddenly. Her voice seems smaller, tighter. “Just sleep with me and pretend it’s her?” Santana swallows hard; looks away. “God,” Quinn breathes, because … wow. “That’s what you were going to do, weren’t you?” 

“No!” 

The tears are stinging her eyes too. She’s wounded, and gasping for breath. 

“Quinn, that’s not why I came-“ 

“Fuck you, Santana,” she snaps, because she can’t hear anymore. Not now. “Just get the hell out.” 

“Quinn, please. That isn’t true -” 

“I said get out!” she snaps, and she doesn’t wait. She strides fast and hard to Santana, and in her strength gets the better of her, shoving hard to open the door. 

“I came because I needed my friend!” 

She doesn’t want to hear it. “Santana-“ 

“Quinn, I lost my scholarship.” 

The statement is so unexpected, comes out of nowhere so quickly, Quinn loses her strength. She falters, loses her grip on the door and Santana. 

“What?” 

Santana just stares at her, half naked and trembling. “To Louisville. Thanksgiving was the last straw. They said if I missed another game I would lose it, and I did. I’m off the squad; I’m out of the school.” 

She’s stunned. The words make no sense, and as they sink in, Quinn doesn’t know what to do with them. 

“I came because I needed _you_. Not because I couldn’t go see Brittany. I came because I didn’t know what else to do. Quinn, I’m sorry.” Santana loses steam. Her face crumples in her emotion, and she sinks into herself. 

Santana sobs on her carpet, alone and scared and with nothing in the world. 

Quinn has no direction. No manual that will tell her what to do. She has no point of reference for anything except the observation that one of the people she loves most in the world is curled in a ball on her floor, crying like her very world has ended. 

And maybe it has. 

Quinn’s heart trembles, shudders and sinks deep within her. 

She shuts the door, hears it click behind her, and then feels her knees give out. She sinks into the floor, and watches Santana cry.


	3. I'd Be Waking Up In The Morning Probably Hating Myself

Quinn isn’t quite sure what to do, but she does understand her situation and what has led them to this point. Santana is a weepy drunk and she is an angry one. Even without those two particularly annoying character traits, they have a volatile friendship, and the result was an explosion, a confrontation, and Quinn’s first foray into exploring her own apparently fluid sexuality. Still, it’s a terrible time to discover that there has been an underlying attraction to her friend brought to the surface when faced with a lapful for Santana and a lot of tequila. 

Quinn’s heartbeat quickens, and she remembers now quite vividly the sensation of her mouth plundering Santana’s; how her fingers so eagerly rounded the curves of Santana’s breasts. 

Her fingers twitch with phantom feeling. 

She may freak out about this when she’s sober. 

As it is, Quinn’s liquor-soaked brain can only concentrate on a few things. Namely, two: her inconsolable uninvited houseguest currently curled in a fetal position on her carpet, and the fact that her down jacket which keeps her rather toasty outside is now making her uncomfortably warm inside. 

But that, at the very least, she can do something about. Closing her eyes for a moment, Quinn steadies herself and then with oddly uncoordinated fingers, she unzips her jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders and letting it bunch at the small of her back. 

It’s a relief when cool air hits her skin. One problem has been solved. 

Across the floor, Santana’s sobs have reduced to sniffles, but she seems to have not adopted Quinn’s strategy of cooling herself down, because aside from the open jacket and shirt, she remains bundled up, looking like a lewd Artic stripper. 

Right. 

Quinn’s teeth grind together, because honestly, the liquor is helping, but not nearly enough to not remember that this is a very serious, very screwed up situation, and she’s had way too many of those for an 18 year old young woman. 

Is this what Sam meant by rich white girl problems? Because she’s going to punch him the next time she sees him. 

Pushing against the door makes her head swim slightly, but it sets Quinn in the right direction, half crawling and half shuffling past Santana to get to her drawer. She’s grateful for her OCD quirks, because it’s easy to locate an extra set of fleece pajama pants and a tank top. 

When she turns, Santana’s head has lifted. She’s regarding her with that same doe-eyed fearful look that prompted Quinn to open the door to her before, and this time it’s made worse with the raw swollen lids and tracks of tears. 

She makes Fantine in _Les Miserables_ looks downright chipper. 

“Here,” she says, and then inches forward, determinedly not looking at Santana’s face as she grabs hold of her and pulls her into a sitting position. Santana’s purposely heavy. She sniffles slightly, but she allows herself to be manipulated. It feels so out of character, so… vulnerable, that Quinn shakes her head to avoid thinking about it and grabs hold of Santana’s jacket, shoving it ceremoniously off her shoulders. 

It’s like playing with a really beautiful, really pathetic doll. 

Santana’s in her arms now, upper body bare except for that damn nude lacy bra. She smells like tequila and Quinn’s perfume. 

Ten minutes ago, they were almost in this exact same situation, but the result would have been very, very different. 

God, this is stupid. Quinn shuts her eyes, purposely blind to the other woman and her tragic, addicting beauty. 

“Put this on,” Quinn mumbles as the clothes are placed in Santana’s lifeless fingers. She turns away and fishes out a pair for herself. 

She won’t abandon Santana, of course she won’t, but at this moment, drunk and out of her element, Quinn doesn’t want to think about what exactly that means. 

*********

Santana is purposely placed in her absent roommate’s bed. Quinn places a glass of water by the night stand, and sucks down a bottle of it herself, despite the fact that she knows it means she’ll have to get up in the middle of the night to pee, a habit that started when she was pregnant and something she’s never been able to shake since. 

The midnight breakdown has left Santana exhausted and emotionally naked. There is none of her usual bravado. She’s aware Quinn is avoiding looking at her and it’s clearly affecting her. 

Quinn is too tired, too raw, to care. She turns off her lamp and invites the darkness of the night. 

“Quinn.” It’s a soft voice, devoid of strength that whispers into the void. “I’m sorry.” 

Normally, Quinn complains about her awkwardly shaped mattress and her scrawny down comforter. Tonight, she finds comfort in it. Her back turns away from the woman she’s hauntingly aware, and she tries to sleep. 

No matter what tomorrow brings, this Christmas Eve at the very least, is over. 

 

*********

It’s a fitful night of sleep. 

Quinn’s eyes open in the early morning with an immediate urge to pee. Sluggish with exhaustion and sleep, it takes a moment for her to realize that this is because a hip connected to a warm body is pressing on the exact area. 

Santana, she realizes, has joined her on the twin-sized bed. She’s curled into her side, arm splayed against Quinn’s chest as her breath flutters across Quinn’s collarbone. Brunette hair sticks to Quinn’s mouth. Her hands have unconsciously spread against Santana’s waist, and when she shifts, her forearm brushes against Santana’s breast.

She’s not wearing a bra. 

Any irritation or wonder at the liberty taken is ignored over the fact that Santana is pressing on her bladder and Quinn really has to go pee. 

She’s not as careful as she could be with an unconscious girl. She shoves at Santana almost brusquely, and though she hears the brunette’s breath change, awareness coming in her movements, Quinn simply pulls back the covers and grabs her keycard, heading for the bathroom. 

The bathroom is stark and quiet, always creepy this time of night. Quinn’s head pounds. She’s freezing, shivering as she sits on the cold toilet. 

She made out with a girl. Not just any girl. She made out with _Santana_ against a door. 

Santana’s lost her scholarship to University of Louisville, Kentucky. 

She made out with Santana _against a door_. 

And now she’s woken up with an armful of Santana, and you don’t have to be Freud to understand what she has become to the other woman. 

A replacement. 

“God,” she whispers, a frustrated and frantic groan, and palms her face roughly. Her heart is hammering now. The goosebumps that prickle on her skin aren’t just from the cold anymore. 

In her haste to leave her room, Quinn forgot to wear slippers, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum. 

This is stupid. 

Her shoulders square when she finishes. She sucks in her breath and she heads back to her room, swiping her keycard with practiced quickness. 

She has her resolve, ready to push Santana up and off her bed, reclaim her space and reestablish her boundaries. 

The order dies in her throat when she realizes her bed is empty. Momentarily stunned, Quinn feebly searches the room until she sees a lump buried in her roommate’s mattress. Santana’s turned away from her. All Quinn can make out is a mound of blankets and a mass of black hair. 

It’s disorienting, to say the least. 

Did she imagine it? 

She shakes her head, tries to rid herself of the insanity, and rushes her to bed, suddenly freezing. 

The spot on her bed is still warm, emanating a body heat that shouldn’t just be hers. 

Quinn curls into her side, and eyes her roommate’s bed. She has no strength to ask the unspoken question, and in the end it doesn’t seem to matter, because Santana never moves. 

*********

It’s a rude awakening on Christmas morning; loud blaring digs into her brain and causes a frustrated growl because her alarm clock is apparently unaware that her weekday 6:30AM preset does not count when Christmas falls on a Tuesday. 

Still, it gives her something to focus on besides the ringing in her head and the immediate unpleasant flashback to the night before and her very glaring present problem: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Santana? 

Quinn doesn’t have the foggiest clue. 

She can, however, slap at her Iphone and make it stop the horrendous noise. 

Once she makes the noise stop, she immediately wishes she hadn’t. With the quiet comes lucid sober reality, and her present reality is unlike any reality that has existed before it. 

Once again, Quinn has thrown herself deep into a rabbit hole without any regard for how she is supposed to get herself back out. 

If she wants to thank God for small favors, at the very least her hangover isn’t quite the bear it could be. Quinn has learned the benefits of hydration since high school. 

Hydration doesn’t help with a sexual identity crisis, however. She won’t figure out what to do with Santana by drinking more water. 

All it’ll do is make her pee more. 

Santana. _Shit._

Bleary eyes widen as she settles her gaze on her roommate’s bed and finds it empty and made. 

There’s exactly enough time to manage a very private and very huge internal freak out over that fact when her door opens. 

Santana. 

Quinn’s eyes close; her body sags with relief. 

“God-dammit,” she breathes and drags her fingers through her hair, a habit picked up when her hair was short, and much easier to muss. 

“Hey.” Santana’s been up for a while. She’s dressed in a pair of skinny black pants and a camo blazer, because like always the girl dresses for fashion and never actual weather. She’s stays by the door, though why the hell she would decide she needs an invitation NOW is beyond Quinn’s comprehension, considering she’s been in and out of Quinn’s dorm since she arrived and nearly made it in and out of Quinn herself. 

“Hey.” 

Quinn has a habit of overthinking things. She’s well of aware of that, and mostly she doesn’t consider it a weakness. Life requires a strategy, especially a life such as hers. The moment she goes with instinct, she gets hit by a car or pregnant. 

Santana, as always, is her exception to that. Quinn has always reverted to impulse with her, and the result is an uneasy friendship that is both fiercely intimate and chaotic. 

Despite that, it’s always remained a friendship. There was no room for sexual uncertainty in the midst of unplanned teenage pregnancies and joining a gang and being paralyzed from the waist down. 

God, what the fuck is Quinn’s life? Seriously? She should have been on Oprah with a self-help book by now. 

Now a line has been crossed now that hasn’t been crossed before, and in the face of it, Quinn doesn’t know how to react. Maybe Santana doesn’t either. She stays by the door, gorgeous and stoic, in her hands a brown paper bag with a ‘Willoughby’s Coffee & Tea’ logo. 

Quinn is aware that her make-up must be smeared. She’s sure her mascara has caked and run and her hair is always wild in the morning. She must look like a mute idiot clown, covered in her blankets and splayed across her bed as she stares dumbly at Santana. 

Instinct is no one’s friend this morning and Quinn has no idea what to do or what to feel. 

“That German chick told me about the coffee house.” Apparently her lack of action is permission enough for Santana to come forward. The paper bag crinkles as Santana opens it, ruffling through the contents as she moves. “Can’t believe they’re actually open on Christmas! You Yale geeks must really like your coffee.” 

Quinn isn’t sure if that’s meant to be a joke. Santana swallows. 

“Anyway, I got you a muffin, and some coffee, and um… some water with some pills,” she says. Quinn watches as Santana’s manicured hands place each of the pilfered items on the desk next to Quinn’s bed, lining them up like little soldiers ready to go to war. “Cause you used to be a total baby about hangovers in high school and… “ 

She’s rambling and nervous. _Santana._

It’d be amusing if Quinn was in any sort of mood to find amusement in anything. 

As it is, she’s so overwhelmed all she can do is look at those items, at Santana’s hands; watch the way those fingers wring against each other now that the bag is empty and Santana has run out of things to do. 

“Santana,” she starts, voice rough from a rough night. “Listen-“

“Quinn, wait.” Santana settles on her desk chair. Her mouth is tight. Dark eyes that Quinn remembers so vividly watery with unshed tears are now dry, but what flickers behind them does so so rapidly Quinn doesn’t understand it. Santana glances away from the searching stare, focus instead on her fingers. “Look, obviously I’m really screwed up right now and you didn’t-“ Santana stops herself midsentence, huffs in frustration and tries again. “You DON’T,” she emphasizes, “deserve any of my madness. I know I just kinda threw stuff at you and it’s put you in a really awkward position. I just… sorry.” 

Quinn is absolutely sure she’s never gotten so many ‘I’m Sorry’s from Santana in the course of their entire friendship. 

Santana’s lost her scholarship. She’s in Quinn’s dorm room and they had a drunken make out session and Brittany’s an idiot and there’s no answers to anything. 

“We need to talk about what you told me last night,” she begins, but she’s shut down almost immediately by the panicked expression that floats immediately on Santana’s face. 

“No.” 

Quinn rubs at her eyes, a moment of weakness because it’s not her fucking problem to deal with. “Santana, I’m serious. You can’t stay here forever.”

“I know, okay?” Santana’s voice wavers, but it’s just for a moment before the other girl… woman… sucks in her breath and offers a stiff, valiant smile. “But not today. It’s fucking _Christmas_ ,” she says, like it should mean something. 

It’s Christmas Day. 

“Yeah, it is,” she agrees with a sigh. 

This is her Christmas this year. A bottle of pills, a muffin , water and Santana shaking out two pills in her palm and holding them out to Quinn like some sort of twisted peace offering. 

They’re not going to talk about last night. 

Okay then. That’s better. That’s good. If they pretend it didn’t happen. 

Quinn shuffles into a sitting position and without a word digs the pills from Santana’s outstretched fingers. If there’s a tingle when she brushes against the other palm, she ignores it. 

Quinn does the only thing she can do. She pops the pills and drinks the water. 

*********

Apparently pre-med displaced Germans are Christmas nuts because Nina shows up like a freaking jolly Santa Claus with Sees candy, gabbing about Christmas movies in the common room. Quinn isn’t sure when she and Santana have had time to actually bond, but apparently they’re friendly.

That’s a relief. The morning, despite Santana and her peace offering of a muffin and pills, has been awkward thanks to both efforts to ignore the very blatant problems they are both facing. 

Nina doesn’t ask questions, another good thing. She seems just genuinely happy to have the company. They pile onto the threadbare, dirty abandoned couch in the common room, sharing a blanket pilfered from Quinn’s bed and watch A Christmas Story on TNT. Santana cracks jokes and Nina finds them hilarious, and if Quinn allows herself to not think, then it really does feel like the night before didn’t happen. 

Except it did happen. She remembers every time Santana’s hand accidentally brushes against her own, every moment she tilts her head a certain way and catches a whiff of Santana’s scent. 

It affects her. Her stomach sours and her body tingles and Quinn forces herself to ignore it because Gay Panic or unseated attraction to her very screwed up best friend is not something she has time for at this very moment. 

She takes a call from her mother and ignores a text from David and a call from her father. Rachel texts to wish her a Merry Christmas, even though she texted to wish her a Happy All Religion Holidays a few days ago when Hanukah began, and invites her to New York for New Years Eve. 

Quinn feels Santana’s shoulder shift against hers and doesn’t respond to the invitation. 

_A Christmas Story_ ends and they move on to Chevy Chase’s _Christmas Vacation_. Santana whines about how no one is playing _Elf_ and when Nina has a moment of ignorance, they have to listen to a five minute diatribe about how _Elf_ is the best Christmas movie to ever exist and that Will Ferrell is a comedic genius. 

Santana in her conviction seems to glow. She’s heard it before. Santana almost got into a fist fight with Puck last Christmas when he dared challenge her with _Home Alone_. 

“He slaps them with a fucking hot iron!” he screamed. 

“He tries to hug a fucking raccoon!” Santana spat back. 

Just the memory makes her laugh. 

Brunette hair tosses over her shoulder in perfect curls as she shifts and in that moment, her eyes lock with Quinn’s. 

She’s just so damn beautiful. 

Quinn’s laughter chokes. Santana’s smile stalls. Eyes flicker, focus, and Quinn is reasonably suddenly certain that Santana’s attention is now on her lips. 

The lurch that drops into the pit of Quinn’s stomach is almost sickening. 

“I think we’re low on popcorn,” she mumbles, and excuses herself. 

*********

She’s by the microwave near the entrance to the Common Room popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher she found in the kitchen that looks so old she’s pretty sure it’s radioactive, when her phone once again vibrates. 

The name of the picture that pops up is that of a Brittany S. Pierce. The picture that represents features Brittany with her arms splayed around Santana, giggling happily as Santana puckers a kiss in her cheek. 

Puck swears that life ebbs and flows, much like a record. Many moments of her pregnancy and time afterward were spent in Puck’s bedroom with his record player, listening to Bowie or ACDC and hearing Puck’s impassioned pleas that if she listened carefully enough she could hear the static of the needle. 

She never quite got it. It always seemed like Puck just being Puck, but she thinks she gets it now. 

If life were a record, this would be the moment when the needle scratched. 

Quinn’s eyes blink up to Santana, who seems to sense her hesitation. She stares back, until Nina distracts her with some giggle about a Chevy Chase antic on the screen, grabbing onto Santana and forcing her to look. 

The phone keeps vibrating. 

Quinn isn’t sure what possesses her to step out into the hallway to answer it. 

“Hello?” she asks, voice purposely low. 

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!” she hears, twin voices so loud and boisterous it makes her wince. It’s Brittany, but there’s a male voice that tunes in with her. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that is. 

“Merry Christmas, Brittany,” she responds, because she’s not exactly sure what else to say. Brittany’s voice is so happy and full of life; this is her favorite time of year. 

“Quinn, it’s so good to hear from you! Did you get my Christmas card?” Quinn’s chest tightens at the carefree nature of her tone. 

Brittany is an adult, even if she acts like a toddler. She’s not dating Santana anymore. It’s not any of Quinn’s business who the hell she dates and it shouldn’t matter. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

She sucks in her breath and expels it slowly. “Did you remember to mail it?” she asks, as polite and neutral as she can be.

There’s a moment of hesitation. “… No,” she hears finally, and her mouth twitches. “I did lick the stamp though!” Brittany says assuredly, but her voice tapers off as she shuffles in the background. She hears her muttering to someone who is not her. “Not sure where I put it because it’s not on the card.” 

“Then no,” Quinn says. “I wouldn’t have gotten it.” 

“Bummer,” Brittany mumbles. “It was totally cute.” There’s noise in the background, Brittany speaking to someone else before Quinn hears, “Sam says hi. Say hi, Sammy!” 

That is something Quinn is NOT in the mood for. She distinctly remembers the urge to punch him the night before. “No, Brittany-“

“Hi!” booms Sam’s thunderous, happy voice. 

Quinn’s eyes shut in frustration. She slumps against the hallway and once again edges further away from the Common Room. “Hi, Sam.” 

“Did Brittany tell you what happened? It was totally hilarious! We thought the world was ending so we got married-“ 

“Sam!” Quinn hears, Brittany’s complaint loud and intrusive. “Don’t-“ 

“No, but that’s what’s funny!” Sam insists. There’s a scuffle on that side, distorting his voice slightly as he obviously struggles. “Turns out it was fake! The world isn’t ending for like, two more years!- Hey stop!“ 

Quinn stays quiet, her mouth clamped shut as she waits out the lover’s quarrel. Brittany’s hissing intelligible words; Sam’s arguing back, and suddenly there’s a yelp and the loud slam of a door. 

“Hey Quinn.” Brittany’s voice is out-of-breath, overly cheery. 

God is it even appropriate to be as pissed off as she is? 

This isn’t about her. She shouldn’t have anything to do with this. This is Brittany’s dumb mistake. She shouldn’t have any feelings about this at all. 

Santana is in the Common Room. Santana, who sobbed on her floor last night and lost her scholarship so she could crash McKinley plays. 

“You got married,” she breathes, and thank God for Yale’s drama program because it actually sounds like she’s not itching to tear Brittany’s head off right the fuck now. 

“Fake married,” Brittany says hurriedly. “It wasn’t even legal – I mean I thought the world was ending so… “ She fades off, losing strength in her words. 

Maybe Brittany does realize how horrible this sounds right now. 

Quinn doesn’t have the patience to coddle her or even be polite. “Okay, well, Merry Christmas, Brittany. Thank you for the call-“ 

“No, wait!” Brittany’s voice is suddenly high-pitched, almost desperate. “Listen, Quinn.” 

Quinn collapses against the wall in frustration. “What, Brittany?” she sighs. 

“Have you heard from Santana?” God-Dammit. Quinn’s chest tightens; her breath goes uneven. “Cause I’ve been trying to text her and call her to wish her a Merry Christmas but she hasn’t responded or anything.” 

Quinn jaw is so tense she feels the ache in her teeth. Santana’s voice filters from the Common Room. She’s singing. The acoustics in the bare hallways are surprisingly good because the beauty of Santana’s Christmas Carol comes through so clearly. 

Quinn doesn’t have the energy for this. Not right now. 

Quinn covers the receiver with her palm and moves further away. “I’m sorry Brittany, I haven’t,” she lies. 

“Oh.” Brittany’s voice is soft and disappointed. “Well if you hear from her can you not tell her about me and Sam getting fake married?” 

Really? How the hell did she get stuck in the middle of this? 

Because they’re the Unholy Trinity. Starting together, ending together. 

Right? 

_God._

Brittany must not like her lack of response, because she begins to ramble. “I mean, I know she said it was okay to see other people and it totally doesn’t mean anything but I kinda… I’d want her to hear it from me. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.” 

Quinn sucks in her breath, and tries very hard not to throw her phone at the wall. “Brittany, you posted about it on Facebook.” 

“What? No I didn’t.” 

“You did,” Quinn snaps because she fucking did. “Sam posted about it and tagged you. It’s on your timeline. So I can pretty much guarantee you Santana already knows.” 

It sinks in. “Oh.” In one word, Brittany comes off as both devastated and terrified. “Do you think she’ll be mad?” she asks in a tiny voice, like Brittany crossed the street without asking or something equally idiotic. 

“Mad? About what? That you married a guy you’ve dated for a couple weeks even if it totally didn’t mean anything in the state where it’s illegal for her to marry you and then posted a paragraph on your facebook apologizing to all her angry lesbian friends? Why would she pissed about it?” 

There’s a pregnant pause. “Okay you sound like you’re pissed about it.” 

Quinn can’t take anymore. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Merry Christmas.” 

“Oh, Ok. Bye Quinn. Merry Christmas.”

Quinn disconnects the call. 

For a moment, she is beaten. 

They were the Unholy Trinity. Besties for life. 

Wow. 

She presses against back against the cool wall, stares at the stark white of the ceiling. Santana’s voice grows more powerful. It floats to her with the beauty of a haunting angel. 

_“I've got to know where do lonely hearts go.”_

Quinn closes her eyes and lets it seep into her. 

_“Because nobody ought to be all alone on Christmas.”_

 

*********

“Where the hell did you go?” Santana asks, when she steps back into the Common Room. She’s cuddled up on the couch with Nina, who is picking at the burnt popcorn and wrinkling her nose at the smell. 

Quinn looks at her. “I got a call from David,” she says after a moment. 

“Ew.” Santana’s eyes roll with distaste before she says quickly, “There’s nothing on TV. We’re singing Christmas Carols. Let’s sing Nina our version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.” To Nina, Santana says, “It’s freaking awesome.” 

And that’s all there is to that. 

*********

They give up on singing when some scrooge on another floor files a noise complaint. 

That leaves Netflix on Nina’s 18 inch Macbook, and a host of bad ABC Family Christmas movies. They lose Nina to a Christmas nap halfway through this Jenny McCarthy movie called _Santa Baby 2_. 

She slumps back on the couch and sleeps with her mouth open, pinning them in such a way that they can’t actually move. 

The movie is horrendous, but Santana actually seems invested, so Quinn eyes the Common Room, notes the green and red ‘wreath’ cobbled together out of strips of construction paper and a popcorn garland someone tried to make before they clearly lost interest and just slung it over the doorway. 

The little sputter of Christmas spirit makes her smile. Someone tried, at least. 

It’s a day of respite, and Quinn’s glad for it. It’s the three of them in the Common Room, and just for today, that’s okay. 

Beside her, Santana shifts under the weight of Nina, who now has her legs over both their laps. The movement causes Nina to sputter something in German that makes them both jump. Her bootied foot nearly kicks Quinn in the face. 

“God,” Santana giggles, a quiet laugh. “Merry Fucking Christmas, right?” 

Quinn stares at her, looks at the dark brown eyes what wrinkle at the corners with the small smile on Santana’s face. 

“Yeah,” she says, and something settles inside of her when Santana rearranges herself on the couch to better accommodate Nina’s weight. Her head falls against Quinn’s shoulder.

The movie plays on. Santana’s fingers flicker against Quinn’s forearm, an absent caress. 

“What do you think about going to New York for New Years?” Quinn finds herself asking suddenly. 

Santana’s head lifts only momentarily. Quinn’s eyes stay on the screen, watches Jenny McCarthy take a pratfall with a Santa hat on. 

The weight of Santana resettles against Quinn. Santana sighs deeply. 

“I think that sounds cool,” she says quietly, so deceptively casual it’s hard to believe it’s not that easy all the time for them. 

She decides that today, she’ll take the illusion. 

It’s Christmas. So Quinn closes her eyes and allows herself to just breathe.


	4. I Stopped Using My Head

Quinn isn't an actual dreamer. She has had moments of fantasy just like anyone else, when she's given in to her own weakness and allowed herself to forget all her scheming and calculating and just _wish_ , but those moments have been few and far between. And quite honestly, those few and far between moments almost never turn out the way she thinks a dream _should_. 

Very brief moments of introspection have caused her to admit (only if she absolutely has to), that sometimes that's because of her own actions. Quinn has never been the big believer of karma that some of her friends are, but she knows that at least some of her own misfortune could be considered a consequence for her own bad deeds. 

And honestly, the same could very well be said for Santana. They weren't exactly saints in high school. 

Rachel, their upcoming New York host, would be the first to witness to the amount of cruelty that both she and Santana are capable of when they truly try to be heinous. 

She still doesn't know what it was about Rachel Berry back then that was so threatening. Rachel Berry was loud and annoying in all the obvious ways, but so were many awkward high school kids. And still Rachel stood out; such an the easy target - so easy to hate. Thinking back on it, maybe it was the fact that the Argyle-wearing-brunette was always so damn sure of herself. Rachel had purpose, even then, and was so proud of it, so open and unashamed, right at a time when Quinn (and Santana, it turns out) was so unsure, so lost, so terrified of her true identity hiding so delicately behind her hard perfect mask. 

It was just too easy to see that confidence and resent it; attempt to break it. 

Turns out, it's just as easy to admire it. 

There does however, remain a tiny bit of herself that will always be perplexed that the first person she thinks to call and confide in is Rachel Berry. 

It's not that she and Rachel are close... exactly. But there's an intimacy with Rachel that's happened almost despite herself. Sometimes it frightens Quinn, so she tries to ignore it. 

Right now, she's so busy ignoring so much else she doesn't have the strength to do that with Rachel. 

"So she's just... staying with you." Rachel's voice is hesitant, obviously trying to make sense of the situation. 

Quinn can't exactly blame her. It's December 29th, and Santana has been with her nearly 4 days. 

Enough of Santana's old habits have remained that they come back to Quinn easily. It means Quinn has time for this conversation. When Santana showers, if she's in the mood, she lingers.

Santana likes to takes her time. 

Quinn finds herself shifting on the bed uncomfortably at the mental image that all too eagerly jumps into her head at the thought. 

That's been happening much too often. 

She casts a look on the door and feels her cheek flush hot against the phone plastered against it. "Basically," she admits. "My roommate's still out for her break so... Santana's just been sleeping in her bed." 

It may require some effort to explain to Tabitha, her amiable but distant science-driven roommate who claims not to 'get' Quinn's major, why her sheets now seem permanently scented with a gorgeous brunette's Kate Spade perfume, but Quinn has decided to climb that mountain when it appears before her. 

At least they smell nice. 

"Okay," Rachel answers, still thinking this through. She sighs, all earnest dictation and thinly veiled confusion, "How does that quite... work?" 

She gnaws on her bottom lip and considers the question. "Honestly Rachel?" Quinn hesitates, but can't help being truthful. "It's been kind of nice." 

"Nice?" Rachel is audibly skeptical, because 'nice' and Santana don't usually belong in the same sentence. 

Still... 

Quinn glances toward the other bed, and notes the rumpled, sheets tossed haphazardly. It's something Santana has never quite lost, despite how 'mature' she seems to have become: her utter messiness. Brittany used to be lovingly amused by it. Quinn? Not so much. It's only been four days, but Santana's presence has already started to spill into nearly every part Quinn's dorm room. Just this morning, she found herself pulling out one of Santana's discarded bras from behind her desk, a barely there piece of expensive lace that Quinn has now had the pleasure of seeing ON Santana very recently in a very intimate way. 

Not that it’s the first time Quinn has seen Santana undressed, but it never seemed to undo her the way it seems to do now. 

The tension that exists between them has more than a little sexual connotation and it's maddening. Quinn has always been aware of Santana's body. The other woman may lack Brittany's curves, but she more than makes up for it in toned muscle, ample (man-made, but still, even before the surgery Santana wasn't exactly lacking) cleavage, and an ass that's so magnetic Quinn has even caught Nina staring. 

Because Santana is damn gorgeous, and apparently not even a straight German is immune because her friend appears to leak pheromones. 

It's worse now. That awareness has taken hold of her in a way that it feels like an actual drug. Santana licks her lips and Quinn suddenly vividly remembers the way they tasted, hungrily suckling on her own. Santana leans in too close and Quinn is haunted by the way she smells, remembers breathing it in as she so wantonly pressed back against the hard plastic of her door. Santana types on her phone with her fingers and Quinn is struck with the memory of sucking those digits into her mouth, dragging her tongue against short fingernails, hearing Santana's breath quiver in response. 

It won't go away and it's maddening and it makes Quinn think that her heterosexuality has been seriously undermined. 

They don't talk about it. An unspoken understanding exists now, that even if eyes linger too long, even if glances cause accidental goose bumps, what happened between them should not be discussed. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But Quinn knows it happened, and she knows Santana does too. 

In the time since, Santana has not once mentioned going to a bar for a drink. 

Still, something has happened in the wake of that quiet, quasi-magical Christmas day. Quinn isn't really sure what it is or what it means, but the calm that befell them on that couch, when they were buried under a sleeping German co-ed and had no one but each other on, has never quite lifted. 

It's a bubble that has lingered and not yet burst. Santana smiles now, quiet silly smiles that she shares with Quinn. They talk about anything but Brittany or Santana's lost scholarship and Quinn has quite purposely avoided any talk of David. 

It's just the two of them now, in their little empty dorm at Yale, and it's not like it was, it never will be again, but it's been a long time since it's been just Quinn and Santana. 

"It's hard to explain," she allows, because despite the many, many thoughts running through her brain, Quinn is still private and astute enough to understand that Rachel may not quite get it. 

"I see." But God bless Rachel for trying. "Quinn," she hears, a brief moment later. "Please don't take this the wrong way. I think what you're doing for Santana is ... really amazing. She clearly needs a friend right now and it's only fitting that it's you." 

Teeth dig into her lower lip, because it's obvious that Rachel is building up to something. "But?" she asks, nails digging into her palm in anticipation. 

"But Quinn, what are you doing?" Rachel's tone is incredulous. Firm. "What is she doing? Has she even talked about what she's going to do?" Quinn swallows hard, eyes floating back to what she is now beginning to think of Santana's side of the bed. Santana's cell phone remains there, sparkly cover catching what little there is of the bleary New Haven light that shines in from her tiny window. "She can't stay in your dorm forever."

"I know that," she snaps, because obviously she does. She's not stupid." 

"Does she have any sort of plan? What happens when your roommate comes back?" 

The irritation is hard to quell, but Quinn tries. Rachel is just trying to help, in that Rachel Berry way of hers, and she's asking very valid questions that are exactly the questions that have been lurking in the back of Quinn's mind this entire time. 

"We'll figure it out after New Years," she decides. She can hear Rachel's indrawn breath, readying for another argument. "Rachel, believe me the last time I tried to talk to her about it, it didn't go so well." 

Much of what happened on Christmas Eve may have been attributed to the copious amounts of alcohol involved, and the fact that whatever Santana was feeling was raw and unfiltered. But Quinn isn't ready to take the chance that it won't happen again. 

Not when she has the sneaking dreaded suspicion that if Santana suggests going to that bar again, she would say yes. 

"This isn't a problem you guys can actually ignore. I get her not wanting to go to Lima, but..." 

"But what?" she finds herself snapping. "Rachel what am I supposed to tell her? Her life sucks right now." 

"It doesn't -"

"Yeah it does. It sucks." Rachel shuts up, and Quinn fights the heated flush of emotion that courses through her at just of the thought of the situation that Santana is now faced with. "I don't have the answers. I don't know how to fix it. It's..." she loses her strength, and her sentence dies off as a result. "You just don't get it, Rachel," she begins again. And why should she? Rachel was exactly where she was meant to be: at NYADA, a rising star. "You've always known who you are. You've never been lost." 

It's a surprise when in response, Rachel issues a dry, sad laugh. "Quinn, of course I have. God, the amount of times that I've second guessed myself since I've come to New York-" she cuts herself off before Quinn can truly hear what she means. Instead, Quinn hears a sigh, a moment of introspection, before Rachel speaks up. "But I remember very distinctly Santana's words when I choked at my NYADA audition. 'It sucks, and I'm sorry. But these things happen.'It's part of growing up, and it's something we all have to do." 

Quinn fights the bitter smirk that floats onto her lips as she closes her eyes. She thinks of Brittany; the way she's clinging so desperately to her youth and carefree immaturity. "Yeah, I guess." 

"Santana is an amazing, _strong_ , talented young woman. She'll figure it out, Quinn." 

Everything Rachel is saying is the absolute truth. Quinn finds herself able to breathe, exhaling as her eyes open and she stares at her cluttered, Santana-infested room. "Right. Well, until she does, I'm not going to abandon her. We've done that to each other too many times. And now I'm all she has." 

"You're not all she has," Rachel feels the need to point out. "She has other friends." 

"Not like me," she says stubbornly, and she's not even sure what possesses her to say it. 

It catches Rachel off guard. "No," she acquiesces with a soft sigh. "I guess not." There's a moment, a tiny beat, where Quinn isn't quite sure what Rachel is thinking, until the other woman sucks in a diaphragm full of air and rushes into her next thought. "New Years Eve is just two days away. Come up early if you want, it's not as if Kurt and I don't have the room. And we're excited to see you! Maybe once we're all together, we can all help Santana figure it out." 

And she means it. Quinn knows she does. Rachel is sincere and happy and despite all that Quinn and Santana have put her through, completely ready and anxious to open her home and her heart to her two old Glee Club friends. 

Quinn is overcome. "Rachel?" 

"Yes, Quinn?"

"Thank you," she says, and means it absolutely. "You're an amazing friend." 

Even now, Rachel seems unsure what to do with such blatant affection. Quinn can practically HEAR her blush and it makes her smile. "Well so are you," she finally responds warmly. 

The door opens with purpose and without hesitation, because Santana may as well live here now. 

Despite the fact that she knows she was coming back from the shower, for some reason Quinn is absolutely flabbergasted that Santana isn't wearing any clothes. 

The shock that breezes through her causes her mouth to flop open like she’s some character in an old cartoon. She very quickly takes in the sight of the other woman draped in a towel and nothing else. Santana’s dark brown hair is so damp it's nearly black, and drops of water drip down the sodden strands, past her shoulders, before dangling from her pronounced clavicles to disappear between the valley of Santana's breasts that are only covered by a flimsy towel that looks ready to fly open from the strain of holding in her ‘rambunctious twins’. 

Holy cr-

"Give my love to Santana, okay? I'm so excited to see you guys." Rachel, she realizes dizzily. Rachel is on the phone. Quinn blinks, sucks in her breath and thanks her Christian God vehemently for Rachel Berry as she tears her eyes away from her pornographic friend. 

"Kay, bye Rach," she mutters, and disconnects the call. She feels like an idiot, but Santana doesn’t seem to notice. She just hisses that annoyed cluck of hers as she squeezes her sopping hair over her shoulder, letting the water drip on Quinn’s carpet. It’s irritating. 

“You couldn’t do that in the bathroom?” 

“Ha. And give those horny perverts a free show? That’s the last time freaking time I go freebird in your damn showers,” she snaps, glaring at Quinn like she’s responsible for the state of the Yale dorm showers. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me this place is Co-ed?” 

Oh. Quinn’s flushed cheeks crease with an amused smile. It’s true that she, Santana and Nina have had this floor more or less to themselves for the past few days, but it’s almost impossible to notice some of the other dorms, even with their closed doors, tend to emanate a rank ‘boy’ type of smell. Eventually, they would be back. And apparently Santana has given some of them a free show. 

Serves her right.

“I thought it was obvious. And you never asked.” 

Santana shudders, tugging at her towel and flashing Quinn a lot of toned upper thigh while she does it. “Disgusting. You know, when I came out, I thought I was finally able to give up seeing any sort of dick that isn’t made out of silicone.” 

And that’s… that’s just too much information. Way too much information.

Because now there are visuals, and remembering every single time Santana’s thrust her hips a little too enthusiastically in Glee Club-

A sharp tingle races through Quinn so powerfully she’s momentarily stunned by it. Santana has yet to actually put on her clothes. Her focus is instead on combing fingers through her wet hair, dripping on Quinn’s carpet, and almost flashing her every few seconds. 

Quinn decides it’s time for a change in topic. "Rachel gives her love,” she says with forced flippancy, reaching for her book. 

"How sad is it that I'm actually really excited to see her?" Santana’s got an embarrassed flush on her cheeks that Quinn used to think was just amiably charming and now fills her with so much conflicted affection her heart may actually burst. 

“It’s been years,” is her dry response. “We gave up Prom Queen for her. I think we’re allowed to say she’s become a good friend.” 

“Um, wrong. YOU gave up Prom Queen for her. I just kept my trap shut about it. And if that ever comes up ever, I’ll deny it.” The warning glare that Santana gives her would be a lot more effective if the girl wasn’t nearly naked and shaking a frilly lace thong at her. 

Quinn smiles reluctantly. “Fine, we’ll take that secret to the grave.”

Santana nods, but she’s distracted, looking all over the room, a lost expression on her face as she stares quizzically at her thong and then back to the bed. 

With a muted sigh, Quinn reaches for the lost article of clothing she has recovered. “Are you looking for this?” she asks, holding up Santana’s missing bra. 

The other woman blinks, registers the article and immediately leans forward, snatching it from Quinn’s fingertips. 

“Where the hell was it?”

She’s got a smile on her face, crooked and charming, with just enough sweetness to make Quinn catch her eyes and grin back. 

Santana's phone buzzes and chimes with a familiar ringtone, insistent and demanding not to be ignored. 

Quinn’s eyes tear away from Santana as she watches the phone ring, hears the familiar tune of a song she had gotten to know very well when Santana and Brittany were dating. 

_Songbird._

Even after their breakup, Santana has not had the heart to change Brittany's ringtone. 

And she’s there again. The third of the Unholy Trinity, making her presence known so easily. She fills this room, makes it hers; claims it with the same amount of ease that she’s claimed Santana’s heart. 

Perhaps it’s a moment of weakness; of jealousy, but Quinn suddenly hates Brittany for it. 

It’s such a strong emotion, so powerful it makes her breathless. But those shackles have been slipping from Santana’s wrists, and with a ringtone, they’ve snapped back into place. Just like that. 

Just so easy.

Love.

Quinn can’t look at Santana. She doesn’t know what to do. There is an unspoken agreement to not talk about this, but Brittany is calling and Santana is just standing there, looking at her phone with this expression on her face that is so haunted and conflicted. 

Brittany is her best friend. Brittany is her soul mate. Brittany broke her heart. 

She should encourage Santana to answer it. Brittany’s call means the girl wants to talk to Santana, and Quinn knows that Brittany loves her. Santana sure as hell still loves Brittany. They could work it out. Somehow.

Quinn stays mute, and then suddenly the song isn’t playing anymore. 

Santana’s let the call go to voicemail. 

Quinn just sits, absorbed in the silence that follows.

“Heard from the horny professor lately?” Santana’s turned away from her. She’s lost the towel, along with her modesty. 

Santana’s back is all hard lines and smooth skin. Toned muscle ripples underneath it as Santana moves. She’s in the middle of clasping the snaps of the bra closed, flicking the strap into place on her shoulder. Her thong is just a slip of white against tan skin and legs that look longer than they should be. 

Her question sounds flippant and unconcerned. It sounds like just a question. 

But there’s no such thing as just a question with Santana. Though Santana sometimes loses control of herself and lashes out with violence, most of the time she battles with words, and this question, right now at this exact moment, means something. 

Quinn doesn’t know what it means or what Santana wants it to mean. 

All she knows is that Santana’s naked in her room, and Quinn is so very aware of it, but that longing that's begun to ache inside of her is physically painful thanks to the haunting ghost of Brittany, who lingers in the form of an ignored telephone call. 

_She’s mine_ , Brittany’s ghost seems to whisper in her ear. _She’ll always be mine. She'll always choose me. What are you doing, Quinn? Why do you always want to be second best?_

“No,” she finally answers. “I haven’t. Don’t really care to, either.” 

It’s an answer. Just an answer.

But wet tendrils flips off of shoulders and dark eyes blaze heatedly in her direction. 

Quinn ignores the look, opens her book and does her very best to stare at the page, focus on the words and hopes like hell that some of it will actually sink in. 

*********

She's two chapters away from finishing her book. The climax has been building for quite some time, and when it happens, it explodes all over the pages. To Quinn, it came too early. The set up feels unsatisfying. There’s so much in the world that’s left to explore, and it feels like the author shot her load too soon, a premature ejaculation that feels unsatisfying. 

Her eyes drift up, across the room to where Santana settles against her roommate’s bed, playing Bejeweled Blitz on her phone with a lazy carelessness and sense of comfort that suddenly bothers Quinn terribly. 

It’s one more day, one more night, and this stupid bubble that’s been waiting to burst. 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?" 

Santana's fingers still. “What do you mean?” she asks, with such vulnerability and dread Quinn almost feels guilty over it. She's breaking their unspoken rules, and she hasn't wanted to. 

There was something to this perfect little bubble of theirs, a heady peace that soothed Quinn in a way she doesn't quite want to understand yet. 

She’s so good at ignoring the obvious; demanding that it change to suit her. 

She did it all through high school. 

She can’t do it anymore. Rachel's words ring in her ears and Brittany's ghost lingers and because of them, Quinn demands action. 

The real world has entered this room despite everything and maybe it's time it did. 

The book lowers into her lap, and she lifts her head to regard Santana with a quietly neutral expression. “I mean, what are you going to do?" Santana doesn't answer. Her friend just stares at her uncomprehendingly, like Quinn is suddenly speaking some sort of made up language; a deer stuck in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Quinn doesn't have the patience for that. Not right now. "Santana," she sighs. "You can’t hide in my dorm room forever.” 

“You don’t think I know that?” 

Here comes the anger. Santana practically spits her reply. Quinn swallows hard and keeps her tone even. “Do your parents even know what happened?” 

Santana's eyes return to her phone. Her game has long since been forfeited, but Santana plucks at the screen anyway, watching the little diamonds and circles and squares shift and tick into place. 

Quinn can't stand it. "Santana. It’s not the end of the world. You still have your mom’s nest egg. Maybe-" 

“Maybe I should just go.” She pushes off the rumpled bedspread and grabs hold of her scattered jeans, tossing them on the bed without a second though. To them she adds a single Playboy minted sock, and begins to search for the other one. Santana’s cell phone falls off the bed and lands with a thump on the carpeted floor. 

Quinn finds her focus on that damn phone, and it breaks her from her quiet spectating. With an exasperated sigh she tosses her book and shuffles off her bed, crossing the room quickly and plucking up Santana’s phone, depositing it on her desk. “Santana-“ 

The woman shrugs her off. 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“I’m coming up with a plan,” is the short reply. 

“Storming out in a completely idiotic huff is a plan?” 

"No!" Santana's luggage back is now open, and she's tossing in pants, shirts... another bra. "But it's obvious I've overstayed my welcome. And you know what?” she snaps, eyes stormy and dark with hurt. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, Quinn!? Because from where I've standing, your life isn't such hot shit now either. Unless you're hiding that stupid lesbian sorority in a closet somewhere, or wherever the hell Jodie Foster's clambake was supposed to be." 

She's defensive and hurt and avoiding the point. Santana's acting exactly in character - backed into a corner, she's looking for an escape route. She's looking to run. 

She’s lashing out and waiting for Quinn to lash back. 

Quinn's so fucking TIRED OF THAT. "Stop it," she growls in irritation, snatching a pair of shoes that Santana's just thrown into her luggage and flinging them off the bed. "Why do you always have to be such a bitch?!" 

"It takes one to know one doesn't it, Q Ball?" 

It does. Of course it does. This is what they do, snap and poke at each other like vipers because no one in the world will ever understand Santana better than Quinn, and vice versa. 

It's terrifying to know that. 

But she understands it. She does. 

She understands _her_. God, she wishes she didn't. 

"Santana." Quinn's eyes are pinned on the frightened and angry woman beside her. When she reaches out, it's because of instinct. Her fingers close against Santana's wrists. The brunette jerks like she's been burnt. Quinn only holds on tighter. "You know I don’t want you to go.” 

It takes only a moment of pregnant silence before Santana whirls, testing Quinn's sincerity with flashing watery eyes and a brilliant, cracked sneer. “And why do you care so much, Quinn?" 

Santana is so captivatingly beautiful in the most haunted, terrifying way. 

It’s a testament to her diminished capacities that Quinn actually forgets that Tabitha is due to be back today until her roommate actually walks in the door, bringing with her such a cold chill that it freezes Quinn into place. 

Tabitha holds a duffel bag and is chewing on a stick of gum, standing uncertainly as she stares at the two of them standing so closely together and the state of her usually immaculate dorm room. “Quinn?” she asks, looking for sense in this. 

Quinn finds she has none to offer. 

*********

All things considered, Tabitha takes it pretty well. Quinn thinks her willingness to accept the situation has more to do with her travel induced exhaustion than anything else. She crashes early, and in the wake of what just happened with Santana, Quinn follows suit. 

Displaced, she has no choice but to offer to share her bed with Santana. There's a third person now in this room, and it feels like they're characters in a play, exchanging civilities and polite conversation until the light turns off and they're left in silence. 

Quinn keeps her eyes closed. She can feel the heat of Santana beside her. It's a twin bed, and there is no room and Quinn is suddenly exhausted. 

She's too exhausted to think, too exhausted to do much of anything but sigh into her pillow and press back further against the wall. She's offering space as a gesture of good will, and after a moment, Santana takes it, shifting forward until long bare legs brush against Quinn's and fingers swipe delicately against Quinn's forearm. 

She feels heavier than she's felt in a long time, and despite the haunting awareness of the body beside her, sleep comes to Quinn without effort. 

*********  
For an unknown reason, Quinn's eyes open. 

It's dark. She's momentarily lost as to why she's woken so readily, but it's then that she sees her. Quinn doesn't move, but she watches Santana, who has just been caught watching her. 

Santana is on her side, face half buried in her pillow. As Quinn’s eyes adjust to the darkness, she notices dark eyes that shine at her, naked and open and vulnerable in such a way it doesn’t seem real at first. 

Maybe Quinn is dreaming. But the way Santana hitches in her breath, exhales it… the way Quinn feels it flutter across her face only inches away, it doesn’t feel like a dream. 

Quinn’s heart thuds erratically. It makes her breathless. Santana just looks at her. 

They’re just staring at each other, and for once, Quinn is at a complete loss. 

Bare legs slide across sheets, over her thigh. She’s been hooked, Santana’s calf smoothing against her own. 

A pregnant moment, and then Santana reaches the tiny distance between them and carefully takes hold of her own fingers. They thread easily, intimately. 

In the quiet of the darkest part of the night, Santana looks at her, touches her… feels her. 

She says nothing, but the affection that shines for Quinn in those eyes causes a tremor that leaves Quinn frazzled and spellbound. 

She knows it’s going to happen, she watches with open eyes as Santana hesitates only a moment before she shifts to close the distance between them, and then they are pressed together. Quinn watches until the last possible moment, when lips settle tenderly against her own. 

Quinn’s eyes close, and then there is nothing but feeling. The taste of Santana as she exhales against her lips and presses deeper, mouth moving insistently against her own. The primal feel of possession when Santana slides an open, seeking hand against her skin, spreading against her waist to curl into the small of her back. The barely there pump of Santana’s hips that causes the most amazing sensation within her, causing her body to arch and ripping a longing moan out of her throat. 

She loses control, fans fingers against Santana’s cheek and digs them into Santana’s hair. She licks against swollen lips and forgets everything but the way Santana whimpers. 

There is nothing more intimate than the way Santana slides her tongue inside of her mouth, the way Santana rolls her body, breasts mashing against hers, legs tangling with the insistent need to get closer. 

It’s too hot, too heavy. Quinn gasps with the need to breathe and Santana rips her mouth away to trail scorching, burning kisses across her jaw, her cheek, until she’s buried in her neck, licking up the column of Quinn’s throat. 

A cough, foreign and so intrusive it feels like a literal stab against her, opens her eyes. 

Tabitha shifts in her bed. 

Quinn’s is panting. Santana is settled heavily against her. The other woman still has her nose against her neck; Quinn can feel the heavy breath, the way Santana’s heart thuds against her chest. 

But they aren’t alone. 

Santana’s head lifts. She stares at her, like Quinn should know what to do. 

Quinn doesn’t know what they should do. 

She does know what they shouldn’t. It doesn’t stop her from offering the insecure girl a trembling smile and a kiss against the corner of Santana’s mouth, before she pushes gently at the body on top of her, until Santana lifts just enough to allow Quinn to turn in her arms and back in against her. 

Her heartbeat still thuds with the excitement of her aggression; her body screams for release. 

Instead, Santana settles in around her, enveloping her with strong arms. Quinn closes her eyes, feels the press of a mouth against her bare shoulder. 

It’s barely reassurance, but it feels like enough for now.


	5. Let It All Go

Even though the train from New Haven to New York is meant to be temperature controlled, the cabin is somehow both frigid and humid at the same time. It’s the Holidays, and that means bodies packed together like sardines. Everyone seems to be going to the city for New Years. Quinn’s nose wrinkles at the body odor and condensing breath that literally hangs like a fog around her. 

“God,” mutters Santana, as she shifts in the seat beside her. “It stinks like Finn’s socks in here.” She doesn’t look for Quinn for affirmation, but Quinn silently agrees anyway. 

Quinn is used to not discussing things. Russell Fabray never liked to discuss; he only liked to be heard. And she’s used to understanding how little choices can mean big changes. Four long years as Santana’s best friend-slash-enemy has made her both used to not understanding Santana and understanding her completely. 

What she doesn’t understand is how this is happening. She doesn’t understand why this is happening. She’s _affected_ by Santana in a way she never was before. 

But they don’t talk about it. Though Quinn wakes up early, overheated because Santana’s body is still pressed tightly against her, legs splayed over Quinn’s thigh and nose blowing breath against Quinn’s chin, they don’t discuss what happened between them. 

Just like the night after they visited the bar, the moment simply exists. 

It’s her fault just as much as it’s Santana’s. 

What exactly would she even say?

Quinn looks down at her book. She’s more than halfway through. This particular page has been open nearly the entire train ride thus far. Quinn’s brain doesn’t seem at all interested in the world that author Jojo Moyes has crafted and refuses to be immersed. 

Santana’s thigh brushes against hers. She’s listening to music that flows through little black Paul Frank Skull Candy earbuds that fit perfectly in her small ears. Santana’s distracted enough by the music to hum along to it. Based on the low, husky notes, Quinn would guess that Santana is in the middle of her Jazz Playlist on Spotify. 

Not that Quinn is super into Top Forty, but she finds herself listening to Kelly Clarkson a lot lately. Today, she picks up her phone and searches until she finds a different of song. The soft, velvet voice of Amos Lee reassures her as he begins to obediently softly croon a little ditty named ‘Sweet Pea’. 

It’s a sweet little tender song, and it never fails to make her think of Beth. 

Her eyes sting. Quinn’s breath goes ragged. 

A tingle distracts her. Santana stares off in some far off distance, but her tan index finger is very deliberately spreading against Quinn’s open palm. It’s a tentative touch; reminding Quinn almost of a scared little spider taking tiny steps away from its web of safety. 

The song dies away, and Quinn is grateful. Santana’s fingers grow bolder. Her palm fits flat against Quinn’s, and immediately her fingers tangle, gripping Santana's tightly. 

Though Santana never looks, her eyes close and while she hums, she squeezes reassuringly. 

Amos Lee has moved on to his next track: ‘Night Train’. It’s oddly appropriate, as they go, chugging away from New Haven and on their way to New York, holding hands like shy kindergartners on a field trip. 

Quinn’s heart beats unsteadily; she blinks back her tears and manages a quiet smile that she doesn’t let Santana see. 

It’s quiet. It’s unspoken. 

But it’s another moment that simply exists, in which Santana is here for her and her alone. 

*********

"Where the hell are we?" Santana asks, and Quinn does not blame her. “Didn’t Rachel and Kurt say they live in New York? What the hell is this place?!” 

She’s standing beside Quinn on a grimy sidewalk, staring up at the decrepit building that, after five minutes of verifying on Google maps, does indeed appear to be the location of Rachel and Kurt’s supposedly sophisticated New York loft. 

“This is still New York.” Quinn tries to defend, but it’s a thin argument. 

The audible scoff that Santana delivers isn’t sexy at all. “This is NOT New York. This is...” Santana’s face screws together, trying to come up with an appropriate insult. “This is a three hour train ride into hell. It’s like Dante’s Inferno if Dante’s Inferno featured a crack house.” She sounds so disgusted it’s almost funny. 

She does have a point, however. Rachel’s boasting had Quinn picturing something that was a lot less ‘grunge’. Rachel spoke of a neighborhood with quaintness and character. A hidden gem of New York City. 

The only character this block seems to have is the dirty hobo on the corner who is smoking some fairly pungent weed and offering to go buy them some more with his medical marijuana card. 

“Aren’t you from Lima Heights Adjacent?” Quinn offers, smirking at the hooded glare her friend immediately sends her way. “This should be almost nostalgic for a tough ghetto bitch like you.” 

Santana actually blusters for a moment, before she seems to deflate and finally mutters, “Oh shut the hell up; you know my Dad’s a doctor.” 

The honestly is both amusing and refreshing, and Quinn can’t help but smile as she lightly presses against Santana’s back and urges her forward, into the building that Rachel and Kurt call home. “Come on, Bad Ass.” 

Santana grumbles and whines like a cat that’s been hit with a squirt bottle, but surprisingly, she obeys. 

*********

It takes several hard raps on a metal door that nearly bruises Quinn’s knuckles before she can hear the loud echo of booted heels scuttling on hardwood and a sudden screech of metal grinding. 

Kurt Hummel now stands in the now open entrance, looking handsome and dapper with his perfectly chiseled jaw and precisely gelled hair. His doe eyes take them in for a moment. 

"Oh my GOD!!!" he squeals, so suddenly and in such a high pitched tone that Quinn actually winces, before pale hands reach out for them both, dragging them through the door so quickly Quinn fears whiplash. “RACHEL THEY’RE HERE AND THEY LOOK FABULOUS!” 

“Holy Shi-“ Santana wheezes, eyes widening with actual terror for a second when a blur of shrieking brunette hair comes flying at them and launches straight into Quinn’s arms. 

It’s Rachel. Her familiarity invades Quinn with every sense; from her delicate perfume to her tiny height to the way she just seems to squeeze as though it’s a contest and she is vying for the top spot. 

Warm, excited, bright and beautiful Rachel.

Quinn realizes at that moment just how much she missed her. She matches Rachel’s crazy embrace with a soft and sincere hug of her own. 

“Hi, Rachel.” 

“You’re finally here!!” Rachel’s smile is brilliant as she loosens her hold to lean back and stare up at Quinn, squeezing again for emphasis. “I’m so happy you guys made it!” 

“Yes, welcome!” Kurt preens, and does this little dance on his booted heels that makes Santana literally twitch beside her. “Welcome to our humble abode!” 

Quinn scans her eyes around the large loft; notes the bohemian aesthetic and the flowy drapes that section off parts for what is probably supposed to be bedrooms. The loft is open and airy and oddly homey. It screams Rachel and Kurt; flamboyant and ready to take on the world. 

“Emphasis on humble,” Santana mutters at her and distracts Rachel, who lets go of Quinn to size up their other friend. 

As always, Rachel is nothing if not an open book. She stares at Santana, and right then and there, Quinn realizes that Rachel is now regarding her friend as if she’s Eponine herself: a living, gorgeous tragedy in the throes of dramatic desperation. 

“Rachel,” Quinn begins, warning in her breath, but Rachel will not be deterred. 

“Santana,” she breathes with sincere emotion. “I missed you so much!” 

“Oh, there she goes!” Kurt sighs, and yeah, there she goes, nearly topping Santana over with her engulfing embrace. 

Santana, surprisingly, seems to tolerate it. At least for a bit. She flaps awkwardly at Rachel’s back and huffs in resignation. “Yeah, okay I missed you too – Rachel!” she snaps because it appears that Rachel has now become overwhelmed with whatever epic movie score that is playing in her head that seems to fit with Santana’s current challenges. She only grips tighter, eyes shut tight as she sniffles against Santana’s shoulder and soaks it all in. 

Wild brown eyes beseech Quinn for help, but its Kurt that manages to finally give Santana room to breathe when he drolly orders, “Rachel, disengage!” 

“Oh, God!” Rachel has actually managed tears, and is wiping them stoically as her hold loosens just enough for Santana get her color back, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m just…” she stares at Santana with sincere devotion. “You’re so SPECIAL, Santana. You know that, don’t you?” 

“Rachel…” Quinn begins, wary and nervous. Emotion is one thing: Santana feeling patronized? That’s a problem. Quinn knows from experience that she’ll snap like a viper and Rachel, with all her gushy emotion, will not stand a chance. 

Thankfully, Santana seems to more bewildered than annoyed at Rachel’s Oscar-worthy performance. “Okay, wow,” she breathes; finally managing to pry herself away just enough to clasp her hands on Rachel’s shoulders and keep her at arm’s length. “Did the hobo downstairs give you some of his weed?” 

Rachel absorbs the statement and a blissful smile spreads across those teary cheeks. Once again she launches herself into Santana’s arms. “You haven’t changed at all! I knew you wouldn’t!” 

Frazzled and no longer patient, Santana begins to panic. 

“Oh my god, get her off!” she screeches, and Quinn lurches forward in time with Kurt. 

 

*********

“God help me,” Santana whispers, leaning into her shoulder and brushing her lips against a sensitive lobe. “When exactly did Rachel get hot?” 

Quinn has no time to answer. Kurt and Rachel, desperate to be the perfect hosts have discovered that they have neglected to pick up ice. Kurt volunteers ‘Team Gay’ to brave the corner market. Santana only agrees to go when she realizes the only liquor that Rachel and Kurt seem to have is a leftover bottle of dry red wine from one of Kurt’s eccentric boss’ charity functions. Apparently, not having a fully stocked bar with a good tequila is something akin to a mortal sin, and they’re subjected to a rant that is thankfully in Spanish before Santana drags Kurt out with her and leaves her with a Rachel Berry who is admittedly hotter than before. 

Gone are the pleated skirts and the flat-ironed hair with the strappy little Mary Janes. In their place is a young woman in a perfect black and white ensemble, wearing chic heels, long wavy locks and dark-shadowed eyes that bring out their brilliance in a way that’s breathtaking. 

She doesn’t look like the Rachel Berry that left Lima. It’s only when she and Rachel are left alone, and Rachel shifts her body and smiles uncertainly, that she recognizes the girl that she knew. 

Quinn guesses that they’re all growing up. 

“So!” Rachel says, clapping her hands and spreading her hands across the space of the loft. “Despite our abysmal tequila offerings, we have actually prepared for your visit. This is where you’ll be sleeping.” 

Quinn glances down. Rachel is pointing to an air mattress that has been blown up and deposited in the middle of the floor, piled high with a mishmash of blankets and a couple pillows. Her brow arches at the offering, and Rachel immediately flushes. 

“You’ll have to share,” she sighs, stating the obvious. “I’m sorry. Kurt and I keep meaning to get a pull out, but so far all of our overnight guests have been staying in our beds, and well…” 

The quiet insinuation that Rachel and Kurt have been slutting it up in New York is kinda amusing. Good for them. 

“This will be fine, Rachel,” she says reassuringly, toeing at the blankets with her booted foot. “If Desi Arnez, the Pillow Princess has a problem with it, she’ll just have to deal.” 

The inflated airbed is a double – cozy. 

Somehow, Quinn doesn’t think Santana will complain. 

Not if the night before is any indication. 

A brief shudder floats up her spine. 

The wood on the floor groans, and it alerts to her the fact that Rachel is still staring at her and shifting uncomfortably. She’s nervous, and Quinn guesses she understands why. No matter how much time has passed, she and Santana are still, to some extent, the mean girls who tormented Rachel in high school. 

God, sometimes she doesn’t even know if she can promise she’ll never be that girl again. 

Quinn has sworn to be and not be so many things, and she’s failed each and every promise. 

All she has now is who she is in the present. This Quinn wants to make amends. 

So she smiles and takes the time to admire Rachel. “You look good, Rachel,” she says agreeably, reaching over to playfully tug at a perfectly set curl that dances over Rachel’s shoulder. “This is a new look.” 

Rachel turns an adorable bright red at the attention. “Thanks,” she says, bowing her head humbly. “Yes! Kurt and his boss Isabelle helped me. I figured it was time! This is a new City, so it makes sense to have a new Rachel!” She tugs at her white silk shorts and after a moment admits quietly, “Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can’t believe it’s really me.” 

There’s a mirror attached to a plank of wood across from them. Quinn catches sight of herself and lets Rachel’s words sink in. 

She loses strength; sinks down against the airbed and feels it give in around her. “I know what you mean,” she admits softly. 

She continues to stare at that reflection; that attractive blonde girl who looks back at her with those wide hazel eyes that seem so deep and somber. 

The mattress shifts with a different weight; Rachel has joined her. “So,” she begins hesitantly. Quinn pulls her gaze off the mirror and regards Rachel and her dark and serious eyes. “How is she?” 

Santana. 

Quinn’s mouth twitches. She thumbs a thick blanket, feels the sheet beneath it and waits for a moment for her heart to stop hammering. She and Rachel are alone now. If she wanted to, she could admit to Rachel that Santana isn’t the only one in a confusing place. She could tell Rachel what she’s been too afraid to voice to herself – that Santana is affecting her, terrifying her, bewitching her. That Santana may be lost, but Quinn is so dangerously close to becoming lost IN her. 

“She’s okay,” she breathes out instead, and curses her own cowardice. She forces a smile on her face and nods quickly. “I think this trip will be good for her.” 

“It will be,” Rachel says resolutely, like a soldier who’s been given a command. “We’ll make this a New Years to remember!” 

Quinn laughs despite herself, remembering quite vividly the look on Santana’s face the second Rachel latched on to her. “I think it already is, Rachel.” 

Rachel nods mechanically, but her eyes are distant, as if she’s already moved on. She waits a moment, sucking on her lower lip. 

“What?” 

Rachel glances at her quickly, takes a breath, and turns fully toward her. “Well, Kurt and I were thinking… and we may have come up with something that may help Santana with her current problem.” 

Her current problem. As if Santana losing her scholarship and squatting in her Yale dorm could even be called a PROBLEM. Quinn’s smile turns plastic, but she clenches her hands in the fabric underneath her and asks, “And what’s that?” 

Rachel’s smile is muted; she’s trying to contain herself; something Rachel never does well. “Well… didn’t she say senior year that she wanted to go to New York?” 

Rachel’s mouth is twitching, like she’s doing her very best not to smile. Quinn wishes she could do the same. What she feels instead, she can’t quite verbalize. Her spine stiffens, and her pulse quickens, even as her brow furrows. “What are you saying?” 

Rachel shrugs. “I’m saying that this is a big place, and Kurt and I could use some help with rent. Maybe she doesn’t so much need a plan as she does … a new location.” 

“You want her to move to New York with you and Kurt,” she whispers. 

“I’m saying we wouldn’t be opposed.” 

They wouldn’t be opposed… to Santana moving in. Here. 

Quinn glances again at the apartment – notes the open space and the sectioned off bedrooms. Who is to say there wouldn’t be room for someone else? She pictures Santana moving through the space, as comfortably and as easily as she moves in her dorm. 

This is New York – Santana was made for this city. 

And yet, the very idea of boarding that train to New Haven alone… 

It’s so ridiculous how devastating that is. Rachel’s waiting for her answer, staring at her as intensely as a Chihuahua would stare at their owner. So Quinn chuckles and moistens her lips. “That’s sweet of you, Rachel. It is,” she adds reassuringly. “But that decision should come from her, shouldn’t it?” 

Per the norm, Rachel is not discouraged. “So feel her out. See what she thinks. Kurt and I love it here and… I think she would love it too.” 

Quinn looks at Rachel, who smiles brightly and looks so effortlessly gorgeous and confident here. 

Rachel may not be wrong. 

*********

They order take-out while they wait for Santana and Kurt, after Rachel explains that though her cooking skills have vastly improved, she’s still not willing to wager a dinner for five against the possibility of burning down their mostly wood loft. 

Quinn thanks her for her consideration, and then has a brief moment of confusion when Rachel orders nearly every dish with meat in it but the rice. 

“Aren’t you a vegan?” she asks, and Rachel blinks at her for a moment, gasps, and then scrambles for the phone once again. 

*********

It’s frigid in New York, but Quinn finds she doesn’t mind the cold. Though she shivers as she leans on Rachel’s fire escape, the view is more than worth it. 

From her perch, mid-town Manhattan and imposing sky scrapers gleam at her, proud figures who stand up straight and tall, daring her to look at them and not be thoroughly impressed. 

This is New York; a place she once thought of as a salvation. Cars honk in the distance; a pigeon crows. The iron beneath her fingers is cold and frosty. She closes her eyes and remembers skipping through Central Park, dancing on stage in the theater district.

She sucks in a lungful of New York air and considers a bleak moment in a hotel room, and two friends on either side of her, as lost as she was and yet still desperate to help in whatever way they could. 

And what came out of that? 

God, Quinn Fabray and her big plans. 

Here they are two years later, just as lost as they were. The Unholy Trinity, who may as well be the blind leading the blind. 

But they’re close to figuring it out… Quinn thinks they could be. She looks over the city and she can see it… 

It’s on the cusp; attainable. 

Movement alerts her to someone behind her; the scuff of shoes and then a breathy huff. Quinn turns, then smiles wordlessly at Santana, who blows a brunette bang out of her eye and shimmies through the open window. Quinn shifts back again, eyes on the landscape and waits for the other woman to join her. 

She feels the warmth of a human body as it presses up against her. Her eyes flutter closed. Her own coat is being draped across her back. Immediately, Quinn feels warmer. 

She shivers anyway. 

“Thanks,” she whispers, and holds her breath for the moment that Santana lingers. Palms round over her bicep and shoulders, molding the fabric against Quinn’s skin. Santana rubs against her; warming her skin, presumably to get the chill out. 

It’s fascinating, that Santana the lesbian is so… chivalrous. 

It’s also disconcerting. In high school, that protectiveness was usually reserved for one girl and one girl only: Brittany S. Pierce. 

“I have to admit,” Santana says suddenly, letting go to press in against her. She eyes the expanse of the skyline, and though her expression is half hidden in shadows, Quinn can tell she’s as enamored of it as she is. “Gay/Berry may live in a hell hole, but even when it reminds me of the inside of Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can, New York still makes Louisville look like absolute shit.” 

A softness enters Quinn, because Santana’s bring to memory familiar words. _“New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous,”_ she quotes airily, a bemused smile tilting up her lips. “ _But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough._ ” Santana stays quiet. She’s staring at her wordlessly, and Quinn feels suddenly exposed. “It’s a quote. Megan McCafferty,” she explains quickly, trying to will away the embarrassment. 

Santana surprises her when she offers a soft chuckle instead. “Damn, Quinn. Sometimes I forget how smart you are.” Her cheeks burn. She finds herself flustered as she realizes that Santana is staring at her intensely – too intensely. “You know you’re amazing, right?” 

The way Santana’s looking at her now… it’s too much. Quinn’s overheated in her jacket. Her heart begins to hammer. “Come on, Santana.” 

“What?” Santana’s beginning to tease her now. She can hear the laughter in her voice. “If you got it, flaunt it, Hot Stuff.” 

She can’t do this. She can’t. “My point is,” she says, louder and more forceful than before. “If it feels like home, why shouldn’t it be?” 

The teasing smiles fades from Santana’s mouth. That sparkle in her eyes, so affecting and intoxicating, loses just a bit of its shimmer. Santana’s looks away. 

Whatever just happened – the moment is gone. 

Quinn glances back over the city and tells herself not to regret it. 

“So New Rachel’s Man Meat is here. He looks like a Ken Doll and Donkey from Shrek morphed together.” That particular description causes Quinn’s face to scrunch in confusion. She glances back and watches Santana smirking at her quietly. “He looks like a douche,” Santana adds, and shrugs. “Rachel’s taste in men has not gotten better.” 

Quinn laughs softly. “Can’t wait to meet him, then.” Assuming that’s a hint, she begins to move back inside, but finds herself lingering when Santana doesn’t follow. Santana stares at her, and that beautiful smile has now grown impish. Quinn has known Santana far too long to not recognize the devil perched on Santana’s shoulder. “Why are you smiling like that?” she asks warily. 

Sucking in air between her teeth, Santana rubs her finger along the post and then explains, “On the way back from the liquor store, we passed a medical marijuana place. And guess who was standing outside? King Hobo.” 

Oh, no. “You didn’t.” 

That smile widens – Santana could be the real life version of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, if she wanted to be. She reaches for Quinn with her black polished fingernails and grabs her wrist, pushing off the railway and headed for the window. “Come on.” 

But no. No, this isn’t what they need. They need introspection. They need conversation. They need Santana to come up with a plan. 

They don’t NEED WEED. 

“Santana,” she groans, because Santana is fucking adorable with that way she’s grinning at her; a kid with her hand in the cookie jar and not caring who sees. 

“Come ON, Quinn!” Santana laughs, tugging her like she owns her. “Let’s get this party started.” 

*********

She’s not uptight. She’s not. Quinn is no stranger to marijuana. She goes to YALE. Everyone does weed. It’s kinda like a thing, especially in the arts programs. 

Quinn was a Skank. Of _course_ she’s smoked weed. 

But inside of Quinn, there is still that Christian girl who wants so terribly to make good. The responsible Quinn, the angel on her shoulder who tells her that weed is weed and drugs are bad, and it would be so much easier to say no to this if Santana didn’t look as hot as she did teaching Kurt how to roll a joint. 

Even Quinn’s metaphorical angel is drooling a bit. 

And focusing a little too closely in how the white little joint looks wrapped around Santana’s gorgeously plump lips. 

She’s also reasonably sure the tequila was a bad idea. 

But they’re in New York, not New Haven, and the Santana that giggles as she sips at the margarita in her hand is not the same girl who downed shot after shot in sad desperation on Christmas Eve. 

Something feels… different, and it’s that feeling, so hard to pinpoint and yet so tantalizing, that keeps Quinn’s mouth shut and her worries silent. 

Maybe it has something to do with Santana’s gorgeous laugh. Or the way Santana brushes her knuckles against Quinn’s thigh, lingering and thoughtless, like she can’t quite help herself. Or the way Santana seems to just be WITH her and this group, enjoying life and this moment. 

Just another moment. 

Quinn wants to experience this – she wants to sit in New York and not think of Lima or New Haven or David or Brittany or what any of it could mean. She wants a college experience – experimenting with friends and cuddling with her bestie, with Kurt and Rachel and even her new manbo. 

“It’s a life experience,” says Rachel, who is clearly trying to talk herself into being okay with her loft becoming an illicit drug den. She’s sitting with perfect posture as the rest of them lounge on blankets dragged from the airbed, half-eaten take out spread around them and a newly opened tequila bottle already half-empty. “After all, Quinn, we’re performers, and if we have any prayer at all of delivering a real, tangible performance-“ 

“Oh My God, Donkey,” Santana pleads, snapping her fingers at Brody. “Stick your tongue down her throat to shut her up, will you?” 

Rachel looks affronted at the request, but Brody, who Quinn will admit, does look eerily look like a very handsome humanized Donkey from Shrek, seems to be a laid back, serene type of guy if not all that bright, and is only too happy to take Santana’s orders. 

“Whatever you say!” 

“Ew, no! Stop it!” Kurt snaps, distracted from his attempt to make a joint when Brody grabs a suddenly shrieking Rachel around her waist and pulls her back into him to deliver the said tongue-kiss. “It’s bad enough I have to see it when you guys aren’t here! Do not encourage this!” 

Quinn finds it amusingly adorable. She only chuckles as Santana, who has had more than a mouthful of that bitter smoke, actually chortles. She’s… slinkier now, pliable with liquor and the drug, and seems to have erased any boundary issues. 

She curls against Quinn, chin leaning on her shoulder as she rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, Lady Fae. Just because you don’t get any…” 

“Who says I don’t get any?” Kurt squeaks, insulted. “I get plenty!” 

It’s a bluff if Quinn ever saw one, but Santana seems more inclined to believe him. She sucks in her breath with a happy cluck. “I knew it! You’ve been visiting bathhouses, Kurt! Be safe!” she admonishes, pointing the lit roach in his direction. After a moment, she bolts upright. “Want me to teach you how to roll a condom on his winkie with your mouth?” 

“Oh my God!” Rachel breathes, scandalized, and Quinn doesn’t blame her. 

“Ew.” Quinn takes another gulp of a margarita to wash away the resulting image that now haunts her. 

Santana’s hand presses in against Quinn’s waist, keeping her still. “What?” she asks, as if that isn’t the most inappropriate question ever. “It’s not like I’ll ever have to use it again,” she adds, reasonable even in her drugged placid state. “Might as well pass on my good technique.” 

“Why wouldn’t you use it again?” Brody wears a confused expression on his face, eyes moving from Quinn to Santana and back again. Apparently the ‘dumb but pretty’ moniker doesn’t just apply to Finn. 

Rachel has a type after all. 

“She’s a lesbian,” she explains patiently. “A big one.” Santana ‘hmms’ and agrees. Her hand clasps Quinn’s, and she’s even closer now. 

Quinn is so much more sensitive to that than she should be. 

“A super big one,” her friend enunciates. 

Brody absorbs that, and grins a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “Cool.” 

Kurt, who up until that moment has been eerily silent, finally speaks up. “I want to learn,” he says meekly. 

Quinn snorts, as Santana pumps her fist proudly, before she turns and offers Quinn her lit roach. Quinn sighs, but when a perfect brow arches in challenge, she finds herself shaking her head and closing her mouth over the little stick. She tastes the smoke immediately. It’s bitter and thick, but it’s Santana and her look that intoxicate her as she takes in the hit. 

“Me too!” Rachel shrieks, and Brody’s grin widens to the point that it looks like he’s stuck a hanger in his mouth. 

Santana doesn’t look away. Her brown eyes stay poised on Quinn.

The weed is good weed. Not that Quinn is super experienced, but she recognizes the feeling as it courses through her. It’s mellow and sweet, and Santana is gorgeous. Blissfully gorgeous and only inches away. 

“Santana!” 

The world is calling. Quinn runs her tongue over her lower lip, notes that Santana watches the movement before she slowly turns her gaze on Rachel and Kurt. “I need a condom and a banana!” 

“So, is this like an audience participation thing?” Brody asks, clearly enjoying the fact that he’s the only straight dude at this particular fiesta. “Do you take volunteers?” Rachel guffaws and smacks him. He laughs. “Ow, I’m kidding!” 

“Not funny!” Rachel whimpers, and yeah, there she goes. Drunk Gropey Berry makes her appearance. 

“Woah!” Santana whistles against her, thoroughly impressed with how Rachel is currently straddling her male stud. “Normally I’d be disgusted but… Geddit, Berry.” 

Kurt seems much less amused. “Rachel, this is not performance theatre. If you do not disengage I’m getting the squirt bottle.” 

Rachel pays him no attention. She just keeps going at it, and Quinn finds herself wrinkling her nose at the sight. Not even the weed induced mellow is enough to keep her from being at least mildly disgusted. 

“I warned you!” she hears, and suddenly a stream of water is sprayed at the cavorting couple, causing Rachel to squeal and topple off of Brody, and Santana to burst into hysterical peals of laughter. 

“KURT!” Rachel sounds livid. 

“I WARNED YOU!” he blusters again, but the laughter has weakened him, and it makes him easy prey for both Rachel and Brody, who turn on him like drowned cats. “ACK!” 

It’s pure pandemonium. The trio runs around the loft like kids in a playground, chasing each other and hollering vengeance for one thing or another. 

Quinn feels no inclination to join them. It’s enough to sit here, with Santana beside her. She giggles and laughs and offers the occasional commentary, but Quinn doesn’t care to hear it. Instead, she wants to focus on what’s in front of her. On gorgeous brown hair and brown eyes so deep they can drown a soul. 

She wants to touch. She does. Her fingers reach up and press against smooth skin, drag against an olive cheek, and shudder at the press of bee-stung lips against her thumb. 

And apparently touching someone’s face like they’re a painting will catch their attention. 

Santana’s eyes lock on hers, and they’re brilliantly magnetic. She lets her touch, and Quinn’s grateful. So grateful. 

Also so high. 

It’s kind of amazing. 

Fingers skim against her shoulder, bringing her in closer, until Santana quietly lifts the joint to Quinn’s lips. Entranced, Quinn has no choice but to obey. She takes in the smoke; holds it in her mouth. 

Santana whispers, “Come here, Q,” and then her mouth opens against Quinn’s, receiving her offering with a breathless sigh that brings liquid heat between her thighs. 

“Holy shit, that was hot.” 

Brody. Quinn’s spine stiffens. The reminder of the real word is a shot in the arm, and it’s literally painful for her to lift her head, and note the way the other three stare at them. Rachel is the one she truly sees. Rachel, with her mouth open and her eyes glassy, trying to make sense of it. 

If she were sober, Rachel would be concerned. She knows she would be. She can see it in the way Rachel stares, trying to fit the pieces together and trying to find the brain cells to remind herself that she should care. 

“Oh fuck you, Donkey!” Santana barks, and it’s enough. 

Rachel is distracted, particularly when Brody the Donkey makes it worse by saying, “What? It’s attractive!” He bobs his head like a toy. “You’re both very attractive.” Rachel pinches him, and he winces. “Not as attractive as Rachel here, but- “ 

Kurt is the one that stops it. His hair is now soaked with what Quinn hopes is water. “Brody, buddy,” he sighs, moving past the bickering pair to splay out next to Santana on the blanket. “Quit while you’re ahead.” He has apparently given up on making his own joint and steals Santana’s.

A slow chuckle sinks into her right shoulder. Santana’s weight is warm. The attention may have shifted off of them, but Quinn remains no less entranced, as a bold touch slips underneath her shirt to trace alongside her trembling abdomen. 

Quinn’s vision clouds. She inhales unsteadily as hot breath skims along her ear and a velvety voice speaks slowly and quietly. “He’s right though. We are hot together.” 

Quinn’s lids flutter. She curls the fabric underneath her fingertips and forgets to breathe. 

Across the way, Rachel’s staring at them. Quinn should care. 

She doesn’t. She doesn’t have the capacity to care. 

Every inch of her, every possible cell is pulsating with absolute desire. It’s buoyed by the drug and haunted by absolute awareness that Santana is looking at her with the exact same need. 

They want each other. 

Santana’s touch brands her, and when it slips away, Quinn bites down her own anguished moan. 

“Where are you going?” Kurt asks, as Santana stands unsteadily. 

“Bathroom,” Santana says, but her eyes stay on Quinn, lingering; tempting. 

Drugged and besotted, Quinn has no control. She watches Santana go.

She’s a temptress. She’s Santana. 

_I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name._

The words whisper in her brain. In a fog of smoke; of love, Quinn is helpless. 

She gets up and follows. 

*********

 

_AN: Quinn’s last quote is by author Nalini Singh._


	6. And Now I'm Feeling Stupid

Quinn has guilty pleasures. She’s human; shamefully so. Her vices, the ones she’s managed to keep discrete and quiet, usually stay hidden deep inside of her. Her desires are almost always unspoken, voiced not even to her. 

The smoke she has inhaled feels like it floats inside of her. In infects her brain, and brings with it a hunger. It’s not a hunger for food. 

This hunger seems so ravenous she shakes with the need. 

God, her mouth even waters. 

Quinn’s fingers twitch. Her heart races.

Is this normal? Is it? To stand inches away from a door that’s open just a crack and feel so… alive? To look at that door and imagine… worship who is on the other side? 

And yet, even dizzy, even infected with this, she still remembers a quote from Lewis Carroll. 

_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again._

She’s drugged… it’s because she’s drugged. This is because of the drug and because of the liquor. With it comes the freedom to chase this White Rabbit. 

Freedom to lift a heavy hand, press against the door and watch it creak open. 

Santana stands against the counter. She’s facing the sink, away from Quinn. Leaning slightly forward, her ass is presented prominently, and it’s as magnetic as those dark eyes that catch hers through the reflection of the large mirror over the sink. 

_God…_

Santana’s hooded look burns like a phantom grip that clasps over her throat, rendering her breathless and gasping, tugging with an insistence that demands Quinn come closer. With a pounding heart, she obeys. 

The door clicks shut behind her. 

Voices that laughed so loudly before are now muted. All others fade away and now there is only her own breath; the way her pulse quickens; how her skin burns. 

There is only the haunting, gorgeous form of Santana; that face in the mirror, that body that stands so very still. Santana’s only expression is a stalled smirk. Dark eyes do not stray from her, but there’s no movement. 

Maybe, just like Quinn, she didn’t think they would make it this far. 

There is no mistaking her intentions. Quinn’s motivations are naked and obvious in the way her breath exhales through her mouth, in the way her eyes rake over Santana’s body, linger on every curve, admiring the way that damn skirt stretches over Santana like it doesn’t exist at all. 

This is dangerous. Never has Quinn wanted so openly. She’s high and a little drunk and it’s released her in a terrifying way. She has no control. That part of her that works so carefully to STOP this has fallen prey to Santana, and it wants just like the rest of her wants. 

It wants possession. It wants that body. It wants Santana. 

Frustrating, volatile, beautiful Santana. Her best friend. Her worst enemy. The girl she never wanted to trust and the gorgeous woman she knows she’ll never have. 

The reflection makes it easier. It’s like she’s looking into a different world, a world where Quinn has the control. A world where there are no consequences. There is only lust, desire, and the twisted affection that exists now between them. 

In the reflection, Santana stares at her, quiet and still. It’s not enough. Quinn wants words. She wants that acerbic tongue to bite at her and remind her of who they are. What they are meant to be. 

This isn’t love. She can’t feel love. 

It’s not love with Quinn. 

Quinn knows that. 

But it can be lust. It could lust and affection. It could be so much more than liquor and drugs. 

It’s so clear now. The answer is in the reflection. There is no mistaking who is in this room now. It’s Santana and Quinn. 

She steps forward, and hears the intake of breath that Santana takes: anticipation. Another movement and Santana is near enough to touch. The breath stops: excitement. Quinn watches, outside of herself and yet so very aware of every pinprick of emotion as her palm lifts, slow and reverent, to collect brunette curls and smooth them over Santana’s shoulder, exposing a slender, flawless neck with a pulsing beat. 

She exhales, floating air against the exposed skin. Santana’s entire body shudders. Eyelids flutter. 

Maybe Quinn isn’t the only one affected. 

Fascinated, Quinn’s touch gains confidence. Fingers press gently, thenspread against that neck. She palms over the curve of it, until she’s just touching Santana’s collarbone. 

The heat of her soaks into the skin. Her grip tightens. 

Santana sucks in a sharp breath; holds it in her mouth and then releases it just as quickly. Quick short pants follow, rising and falling and straining against Santana’s tight shirt. Quinn watches: her own voyeur. The image they present is s magnetic and beautiful. 

_They_ are beautiful together. 

“This is what you meant, isn’t it?” she asks, voice hushed with wonder, sparking with realization. Santana’s fingers journey behind her, until they are pressed flat against Quinn’s thigh, flexing over the fabric to dig into the muscle. Once again, that little vein in that perfect neck throbs. “So beautiful…” 

The hunger rages. Quinn’s will is controlled by her own desire and it consumes her. She lowers her head and opens her mouth, burying a kiss into the crook of Santana’s neck. It’s a perfect curve; her lips feel surrounded by soft skin. A ragged moan rips from the body she holds, sinking back against her. 

“God, Quinn.” 

It’s her name on Santana’s lips. It’s her mouth that’s causing the whimpers; the little pleas, the rocking of Santana’s ass back against her pelvis. 

It’s Quinn that owns Santana now. This moment is hers. 

God, the way that moves her… 

_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again._

She pushes the thought away. 

Quinn’s hands snap to Santana’s hips, holding her steady. Her mouth ravishes Santana’s neck, tongue licking as she sucks, coating the skin with her own saliva. She continues pressing burning, lewd kisses until she reaches Santana’s jaw. A strong hand leaves her thigh to reach up, dig in her nape and suddenly there is no escape. Not anymore. 

Quinn doesn’t care. 

She wants this. She wants demanding fingers that grab hold of her and force her lips against a willing and addictive mouth. She wants that feeling that happens when Santana’s ass grinds against her, making her hips jerk and her knees buckle. 

She wants to be controlled. She wants to be kissed. She wants to be worshiped. 

She wants Santana. 

“Fuck this,” she hears, before her body is forced back and Santana is twisting against her. Bold arms wind around her neck and then again her mouth is plundered, Santana’s tongue demanding entrance, demanding everything. She kisses Quinn with urgency and a lust that sends emotion deep into Quinn’s abdomen. Lips slide and nibble, Quinn’s tongue tangles roughly with Santana’s, and teeth nearly rip at her mouth. 

She inhales hard through her nose, shoves and pushes until Santana’s backed up onto the sink and those lean thighs open up to wrap smooth legs around her. Something falls and shatters. They don’t care. 

Santana’s fingernails scratch, digging marks into her shoulder blades, and Quinn isn’t sure why she even feels the pain until she realizes that her dress is now half off, hanging off her shoulder, allowing Santana to claw at her neck and snap at her bra straps. 

“Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, mottled words that lose their bite when the mouth saying them sucks hard against her tongue. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

She says it like she's angry and still the words sink into Quinn like poetry. 

Ignited, Quinn’s palms slide between them. She is not easy or gentle. Her fingers spread against full breasts. Santana groans; her chest arches, pressing them up into her palms, offering herself. 

_God._

She’s never… it’s never… 

Nipples pebble hard against her palm. She feels them drag, even over the shirt, over the skimpy lace bra. Her tongue swipes against Santana’s teeth, swallows down a moan and Santana’s nails scratch lines against her shoulder. 

It’s permission enough. 

She digs fingers underneath the fabric against Santana’s cleavage, yanks with rough force and then they are bare. Gorgeous breasts with hard dark nipples that spill over Santana’s top, presented to her eagerly. She feels Santana’s lips pant against her cheek, nibbling on her jaw and her chin. 

This is real. It's happening. Those are bare breasts that feel so soft against her questing fingers. That is actually Santana's nipple that rolls between her fingertips. It's Santana's agonized huff that she hears against her ear when she pinches a little too hard. 

Just another moment... 

"Quinn..." 

Quinn gives her no time to finish whatever she is going to say. Fingers thread into her hair the moment her tongue presses against a firm nub. She tastes salt on Santana's skin, feels the texture of soft skin and a nipple that rises into her mouth. 

She moans. Santana yanks, pulling her off balance in such a way her hand flails to find purchase. 

She knocks against something... pills maybe? It doesn't matter. It goes crashing to the floor.

She's wet. Quinn is desperately wet. It causes a desperate awareness that turns into an audible whine when Santana's legs pull her in closer still, grinding against her with purpose. 

"Shit!" she gasps against Santana's skin because there is nothing else but that intense FEELING. Her hips thrust forward with enthusiasm, and even through the layers of clothes between them, Quinn can feel...

God, is that really what she's feeling? 

Santana's head falls back harshly against the mirror, half naked and clutching at her. She's splayed so lewdly against the counter, hips pumping and back curved in a perfect arch. 

The image is devastating in the most aching of ways. Santana is this way because of Quinn. Santana looks like this because Quinn’s hands are on her. This is her best friend as she’s never imagined, and it leaves her breathless, entranced, and filled with such desire she shakes from the power of it. 

“I want you,” Quinn breathes, finally giving voice to this. “I want you, Santana.” 

Brown eyes, deep and dark and hazed with lust, blink open. Santana's mouth, swollen and puffy, falls open. She pants harshly. 

"What the hell are you guys doing in here!? Rioting?!" The voice is intrusive and so, so loud. Kurt, Quinn realizes dizzily. Kurt's voice that shouts just as the knob on the bathroom door twists and the door flies open. "I know slapfights are like, your thing, but there are flea market antiques in there, and if you two have damaged a single one-" 

Like a deer stuck in headlines, Quinn cannot move. There’s no time. Before she can even process the intrusion, Kurt is here, in the bathroom, invading their space and their world. 

Through the mirror, Quinn sees his horrified face, and though it’s now set askew by their rough foreplay, she also can see quite clearly the image they present. 

Santana sits splayed on Kurt’s bathroom counter, legs open and wrapped around Quinn’s hips. Her breasts are bare and shining with moisture that is Quinn’s own saliva. Quinn’s blonde hair is a mangled mess. Herusually perfectly put together face now features swollen lips smeared with lipstick, and she wears a dress that hangs off her shoulder, bra strap dangling uselessly from her arm. 

There is no mistaking what is happening in this bathroom. 

And still, no one moves. Kurt seems himself frozen. He’s pale and stricken. 

“Kurt! Are they alive! Are you?!” 

Rachel. 

“Oh Fuck,” Santana breathes, and it’s enough to spur Kurt into action, like a character who was on pause and now pushed into fast forward. 

“It’s BUSY!” he shouts, and swivels for the door, throwing his weight against it the second it begins to move. “I mean, they’re busy! Do NOT come in! Because they are VERY VERY busy!” The look he shoots them is wild and manic, but Kurt does give them a moment of reprieve when he himself slips out and gives the scene one more haunting look. “I don’t know what you broke,” he spits, “But it's all antique and you’re paying for all of it!” 

The door slams shut. 

But it’s no use. Kurt has let in the world. He has let in her own doubt. Gone is the freedom. Gone is the giddy emotion, the LUST that drove her so forcefully just seconds ago. 

What’s left behind is exactly what this is – a drunken hookup exacerbated by drugs. It’s just like New Haven. 

But God, it’s worse. It’s worse. Why is it worse? 

Santana's legs fall from around her waist. She covers her breasts, trying hard to fix herself. 

"We didn't do anything wrong," Santana says, but her voice is tight and Quinn is not reassured. She’s not looking at her. 

Shards of glass, remnants of Kurt's antiques, spill around them. 

Quinn's legs are shaky. She's not sure she can move, so she just looks at the mess that she and Santana have created. 

Lewis Caroll whispers to her, one more time, " _In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again._ " 

*********

“Do you need help with that?” Santana is off the counter. She’s watching as Quinn picks up the ironically literal pieces of their brief break from sanity. 

Santana’s voice is low and soft, so unlike her usual tone. 

It makes Quinn shudder, but the emotion she evokes is unrecognizable. Quinn doesn’t realize her hands are shaking until she accidentally drops a piece. 

“Quinn-“ 

She jerks away from the hot hand that settles on her. “I can do it,” she snaps, a hard crispness in her voice that stops the warmth of Santana’s touch immediately. “Just let me. Leave me alone.” 

There’s a moment when she thinks Santana is going to fight her. Quinn continues to go through motions, gathering little shards of porcelain as she waits. There’s a lump in her throat that’s actually painful, and all she wants now is for Santana to go away. 

She wants it as badly as she wanted Santana pressed against her just minutes before. 

For once, Santana gives her what she wants. 

“Fine.” Santana exits the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. 

The force of it makes Quinn jump. She places a shard on the vanity. In the mirror, in her reflection, she rediscovers Lucy Fabray: small, ugly and terrified and disgusted with herself. 

Kurt barges into the bathroom, retching with his hand over his mouth and hobbles over the toilet. 

He seems not to notice her at all. 

*********

The carefree, silly atmosphere that flooded the loft so easily before has faded. There's now an unspoken element; what everyone knows and no one wants to comment on. 

Kurt, unused to the weed and the munchies it produces, ate himself sick, and he is now passed out on his bed. Rachel, always the friend no one wants and everyone needs, has lectured Kurt, cleaned up as best as she can, and retreated to her own ‘bedroom’ with Brody. 

Before she does, she shoots a look with Quinn that for once, Quinn cannot read. 

Quinn doesn’t care. She is in no mood to receive Rachel’s disappointment, anger, or whatever it is that Rachel wants to feel. 

Santana has already bundled herself under the covers, curled into the left side of the bed. Quinn always sleeps on the right. 

They have official sides of the bed. That’s how many times they have shared a mattress. 

It’s stupid how sadly funny she seems to find it. 

Quinn strips, changes and slides into the bed. Santana never moves. 

The apartment stinks of weed. She drifts off to sleep ignoring the scent of Santana’s perfume that lingers on her skin. 

*********

She awakens in the darkest part of the night chilled to the bone and alone. The left side of the mattress is empty. 

Quinn is disoriented, sleepy enough to feel concern instead of hesitation. She searches the large space, and discovers that the window to the fire escape is open. Curtains billow from the New York breeze seeping inside, the cause of those bumps on her chilled skin. 

Quinn rises off the bed. 

She pulls on her coat, but it’s still a sobering moment when she steps out onto the ice cold fire escape and feels just how chilly it is. New York is unforgivable at night, and yet Santana seems unaffected. She’s shivering ever so slightly, but there is no reaction to Quinn’s presence except a curious look and a faded smile before she looks away. 

In a way, it helps to see Santana this way. She’s in almost the exact same position that Quinn was in earlier, evoking some odd sort of deja view. 

They can be who they were. 

Quinn glances down at the blanket she carries with her. It feels like she's suddenly playing a part, and the result is dizzy sort of haze that carries her closer to Santana. 

With a tender, apologetic touch, she spreads the blanket and carefully places it over Santana’s shoulders. The other woman stiffens against her touch, but only slightly. Quinn waits breathlessly until Santana reaches up behind her to grab hold of the edges of the fabric and wraps it more carefully around herself. 

"Thanks," she says, and it sounds like she means it. Santana remains distracted, eyes peering over the blinking lights of the city. 

A particularly cold wind blows past them and Quinn’s teeth begin to chatter. “You know it’s freezing, right?" she asks, stating the obvious as she moves to stand beside her. A blond hair sticks to her mouth. With a huff of irritation, she smoothes her fingers across her cheek and fishes it out of the way. 

Santana watches the movement. A smile floats on her lips before it fades just as quickly. 

"Brittany called," she says. In the distance, a car alarm goes off. "I didn’t want to wake you." 

It’s oddly thoughtful of Santana. In high school Quinn used to be subject to quite a few Brittany and Santana midnight couplings, and Santana had never seemed to care about her beauty sleep back then. 

Still, Quinn’s emotions are raw, and Brittany’s name carries a power that it never has before. Her heart clenches inside of her. "Oh," she manages, amazed when her voice sounds almost flat and unaffected. She mimic's Santana's position, hands twisting around the metal railing as that damn car alarm keeps going. "What’d she say?" she asks, because that's something a friend would ask. It’s what’s expected and because they are friends, she should feel nothing beyond the general concern that would be normal because Brittany and Santana broke each other’s hearts and this is a delicate situation. 

She should have no personal investment in that conversation at all because Quinn should have no personal stake in this. 

Santana’s hair whips about her, but even in shadow, her profile is striking. As Santana attempts to control the strands that fly into her face, she bares her neck and it’s then that Quinn notices some very dark bruises that mar the skin. 

Hickeys, she realizes. Two of them. Courtesy of one Quinn Fabray. 

_Jesus Christ._

"Nothing." Santana chuckles harshly. Finally, damn car alarm stops blaring. The street below them seems almost too quiet without it. "She just… she was worried because she hadn’t heard from me." With Santana's fingers tangled against each other and that big blanket wrapped around her thin frame, she looks incredibly young. "You know we used to talk almost every day and she’s never once told me she’s dating Sam?" For the first time since Santana began to speak of Brittany, she looks over. Dark eyes, bright and moist, search her own, holding her gaze. Breathless, Quinn doesn’t know what to say. "God, I even tried to bring it up. I tried to make her tell me and… she just… changed the topic.” Santana’s shoulders slump in frustration. “Started talking about Lord Tubbington and his gambling addiction." 

_Brittany_ , Quinn thinks miserably. _What the hell are you doing?”_

This isn't the Brittany that she knows. Brittany is acting out of character and it’s startling. 

For Santana, it must be terrifying. This is woman she loves. The woman she thought she knew. Brittany has always liked to define her own realities but the lengths she's gone with this... 

She doesn't understand. And she knows that neither does Santana. 

But then again, they are also the pair that earlier that evening had pushed into a bathroom and nearly forgotten the world themselves. 

Maybe they have no right to judge Brittany. Quinn is supposed to be one of Brittany’s best friends, but each and every moment her lips has touched Santana’s, she has not thought of her once. 

"I'm sorry," she says, when she realizes Santana is staring at her, waiting for some kind of response. 

Lips quirk; a bitter smirk on those full lips that reek of sadness. "It’s stupid. I couldn’t even tell her about what happened in Kentucky," she admits. 

God, the three of them are such hypocrites. Quinn sighs, watching the cloud of condensation dissipate in front of her moments later. 

"I know," Santana snaps, but there is no acidity behind her response. Santana remains pensive this dark night. She stares at the New York lights as if they hold some magic key, an answer to all of this. "It’s fucking weird, you know? She’s supposed to be my best friend and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to her now." 

What is there to say? Lima, Ohio seems so far away, a time machine that stands still while the world moves on around it. 

Life has happened to them all, and despite even Brittany’s efforts to stave it off, some part of them all is not who they were. 

Is this growing up? Because it sucks. 

"Maybe it’s because you’re not best friends anymore." 

Santana reacts like she’s been actually hit. She sucks in her breath and just looks at Quinn, wounded. “Quinn-“ 

“She moved on and fake-married Sam and didn’t tell you, Santana.” It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. These are big moments that have defined Brittany and her life in Lima. 

Santana’s eyes water, but she has no response except a furious shake of her head and a curse. “Fuck,” she whispers. 

“Best friends talk,” Quinn snaps. 

The words die in the space between them, and what fills that space is a sudden awareness of what she has just said. It’s a stupid thing to say in the face of her own quietness. 

Santana’s hickeys haunt her. Just another moment, they jeer. 

Quinn’s heart skips a painful beat. “You’re right,” she hears. “Best friends talk.” Santana’s voice is mocking; forceful. She has regained her anger and with it, her strength. “So are we ever going to talk about this?” Quinn can feel the heat of Santana’s glare burning into the side of her face. She feels frozen, overtaken by the chill and the paralyzing emotion that guts her. 

Quinn lives by that emotion. She understands it. Instinct and self-preservation guides her. Each and every time she has ignored that voice she’s been rejected, or nearly killed, or fallen pregnant. 

She can’t do this. She can’t. Santana is meant to be her safety – her constant. 

She’s not supposed to terrify her and she’s not supposed to PUSH her like this. 

“Quinn.”

No. 

“What are we supposed to say?” Quinn whirls, and it takes Santana aback. The other woman opens her mouth, closes them, but Quinn shakes her head and continues. “No, seriously, Santana, what can we say?” 

Eyes flash at her. “How about, ‘We were high and drunk and we almost had sex in Rachel and Kurt’s bathroom!’” Santana snaps, and Quinn shudders at the thought, the actual words that come out of Santana’s mouth. “And you know, come to think about it, it seems to keep happening! Maybe we should talk about that or what it means?” 

What it means. God, seriously? 

“Does it have to mean anything?” Because it can’t. She knows it can’t. Two minutes ago they were talking about _Brittany_. Santana has no scholarship and no plans. She’s an open, bruised and bleeding heart, and there is no ROOM for Quinn now. God, she hates that she knows that but she does. 

And God… Quinn… Quinn isn’t even GAY. Not really. This … thing with Santana-

How can an affair with her own professor feel safer than sex with Santana? 

Santana stares at her. She’s breathing hard, panting in and out, but she’s just looking at Quinn. She looks naked and open and terrified and Quinn wants to help her, but she can’t. 

Quinn’s heart is already so dangerously bruised, so terrifyingly broken. To lose it completely when even in New York, even after all that’s happened, Brittany still stands between them like a grim grinning ghost… 

“I guess it doesn’t,” Santana mutters, and Quinn hates how much it hurts to hear it. 

Santana has no right to sound so torn. 

It’s so cold out here. Quinn’s teeth continue to chatter and though Santana stands right beside her and she’s wearing her coat, she feels naked and alone. 

Quinn inhales unsteadily, and forces herself to stand. 

Maybe this is good. What they needed. This is a reminder of what they are and what they are not. 

Quinn is Santana’s friend, and they are here in New York because Santana is lost. 

Quinn cannot be lost with her. 

One of them has to know exactly who she is or they will both drown. 

“Kurt and Rachel want you to move in with them.” 

It’s probably the exact opposite of anything Santana expects to hear. Her friend nearly chokes with the revelation. “What?!” 

The reaction is an amusing one. Quinn feels her aching heart ease. She smiles softly. “And I think you should.” 

Santana is flabbergasted; for once without words. “And when were you three going to let me in on this little plan?!” she sputters adorably. 

“I just did,” Quinn points out reasonably. “Just think about it, okay? Stop being a coward, and really think about it.” She reaches for Santana’s hand to carefully squeeze at the cold fingers she finds. 

If it’s one thing she and Santana have in common, its fear and the lengths they would go to, to keep it hidden. From everyone except each other.

But Santana is not ready for that particular truth. She just stares at Quinn’s hand covering her own. “Oh, now we’re talking about who’s a coward?!” 

Touche. 

Quinn is suddenly exhausted. She has no strength to argue. 

“Santana,” she begins, soft and slow. “It’s freezing. Can you just… come to bed?” Those beautiful eyes just look at her. Santana doesn’t move.

“Quinn…” 

Maybe it is the Blind leading the Blind. Maybe they’re both lost. 

But someone has to take the initiative to pull them both in out of the cold, and Quinn may be a coward, but at the very least, she has strength enough for that. 

“Tomorrow is New Years Eve,” she says, and there’s some sort of hope in that. Santana’s palm turns in her grip, until their fingers are clasped tight. Quinn’s chest physically hurts, but her smile is genuine. “Come to bed.” 

This time, when Quinn tugs, Santana follows.


	7. I Know I Said it a Million Times

She dreams. 

It's that terrible type of dream where one knows it is a dream, and yet somehow one still forgets. She wears a tight high pony and a perfectly fitted Cheerios uniform, blood red letters pasted over her chest, branding her as one of the elite. 

Her head is held high; her walk is proud and powerful. She parts the hallway full of faceless, nameless students with a thoughtless regality that proves she owns them all. 

Santana walks with her, just behind on her right. She matches her stride for stride, and her imposing beauty is a perfect compliment. Where Quinn is light, she is dark. Where Quinn cuts, she slices, and every step is full of swagger and authority. 

Lucy would have never dreamed herself worthy enough to befriend someone like Santana Lopez. She would have been one of the nameless, lost in the crowd as the world passed her by. 

But she's not Lucy, not anymore. She's Quinn, and Quinn is WORTHY. Santana walks by HER side, her imposing and gorgeous general. 

This high school is theirs. The world is theirs. 

The hallway seems never ending, but Quinn is in no mood to escape it. She relishes this walk. There are eyes on her that are full of admiration and envy. They look at her perfectly manufactured nose and her sharp defined chin, her hard won figure and the perfect woman beside her and she knows they are as perfect as any two bitches can be. 

She turns a corner, and they keep walking. Though the hallway remains the same, Quinn discovers a sudden shift. She's not sure what it is, or why it makes her uneasy, until she glances back to ask Santana if she feels it too and discovers that dark figure has fallen out of step. 

She's staring at someone on Quinn's left. 

It's Brittany, who hooks her wrist along Quinn's elbow and shines bright blue eyes at her. She's wearing that same Cheerios uniform. It fits over her dancer's body in such a way it looks it was tailor-made for her figure, and she walks beside Quinn and Santana as if she had been there all along. 

She's pretty, but her features seem too angular to be particularly striking. Her breasts are small. Her best feature are those blue, blue eyes and her long, athletic legs that seem to go on forever. 

But Brittany wears her imperfections with pride, and it makes her beautiful. And though she walks with a different sort of sashay, she matches their stride with effortless grace. And those bright blue eyes are alluring and friendly without a hint of malice, and so Quinn smiles because Brittany is no threat. 

The smile only fades when she discovers the way Brittany's attention moves away from her to inspect Santana who exists just out of reach on Quinn's left. 

They stay a step behind her; happy to let her lead them. The crowds continue to part, even with the three of them. Quinn's heart trembles oddly; she feels an uncertain sense of dread, but it feels silly so she pushes it away.

She's Quinn Fabray, and this hallway belongs to her. It belongs to _them_. 

She keeps walking. The lockers never change, and the faces never seem recognizable. They stare. Quinn keeps her perfect posture and remembers her mother's words: the world is always watching. 

But something changes. Quinn doesn't understand it, not at first, but the crowds begin to part less easily. Her claustrophobia begins to kick in, causing her heart to pound and her breath to quicken. 

Still, Quinn keeps her composure. Her fingers tighten into fists, and she keeps walking. But still the wide berth seems to shrink. 

She gets bumped, and so she snaps, whirling to tell Santana to keep her guard. 

Santana isn't there. 

Quinn's step falters. She nearly trips on the uneven linoleum. 

Quinn loses her focus. She stops moving forward, and instead searches frantically. The crowd has closed in behind her, but by some miracle she catches sight of Santana, some ten feet down the hallway.

She's just standing there. 

"Santana," she snaps, because this is ridiculous. 

But Santana appears to not hear her. She doesn't appear to see or hear anything but Brittany, who stands beside her and smiles so beautifully at Santana. They're holding hands, unaware of the crowd, unaware of this hallway, unaware of the fact that they've left Quinn behind. 

"Brittany!" she tries, but Brittany only smiles a friendly, sweetly happy grin and waves distractedly at her, before taking hold of Santana's hand and leading her away from Quinn. 

"Bye Quinn!" Brittany says, and then disappears into the crowd, taking Santana with her. 

Quinn feels the crowd closing in. Her shoulder gets knocked. She falls back, catches herself from hitting the floor and tries to move forward. The hallway, so open and clear before, is now a mass of teaming bodies that don't seem to care about the blood red of those Cheerios letters or the position of her high pony. 

"Santana!" She's trying so hard not to sound desperate and pleading. "Brittany!" 

They don't hear her. God, of course they don't.

Someone plows into her back, nearly mowing her over. She whirls, determined to put him in his place, to recognize the high pony and the uniform when she realizes there is no pony and there is no uniform. 

Instead, her hair cascades over her shoulders in dull strands, and in place of her flat stomach is a swollen rounded belly. 

She panics.

She wakes to a hand pressing down on her shoulder. It's a gentle nudge that seems out of place with her disoriented senses. Quinn's chest rises and falls. Her vision, initially blurry, begins to focus, until she realizes the person who hovers over her now is none other than Rachel Berry, who kneels against the inflated airbed and stares at her. 

Quinn's stomach is flat. There is no high pony, and there is no hallway. 

She is in Rachel's New York loft, and she is not alone. 

Pressed in beside her, deeply asleep with fluttering eyes and an arm slung across her chest is Santana. 

There is no Brittany. 

The hand on her shoulder squeezes again. Quinn sucks in a breath and drags her eyes back to Rachel. "Are you okay?" Rachel whispers. 

Quinn isn't quite sure. Her heart, struggling to keep up with her awareness, still thuds in her chest. She can taste the layer of filmy sweat that dots her upper lip. 

Still, she nods. She's awake, and not pregnant, and that means she's okay. 

It's early morning. There's still a crispness in the air, but sunlight has begun to filter in from the windows, and Rachel, by some miracle, seems completely unaffected by both the drug or liquor she consumed last night. She's awake and alert and kneeling at her bedside staring at them both like some sort of creeper. 

"I'm going to go grab some bagels and coffee," she says after a moment, in a quiet tone Quinn didn't realize Rachel was actually capable of. "Why don't you come with me?" 

It sounds like a request. It's not. Despite the light voice, Rachel eyes are somber, and her mouth is tight. 

The last time Rachel looked this disappointed in her was when she discovered Quinn intended to tell Principal Figgens about Puck and Shelby. 

So yeah, the very last thing Quinn wants to do at this moment is go get coffee and bagels with this Rachel Berry. 

"Please," Rachel says, and it must be really early in the morning, because Quinn somehow does not have the common sense to disregard her oh-so-polite request and turn it down with a sweet 'no thank you'. 

She is in the midst of trying to figure out how to untangle herself from the warm and heavy body that's wrapped against her, when Santana's breathing changes, and she shifts. "Rachel?" Quinn hears a sleep soaked voice murmur as Santana digs deeper into her side and half-glares up at their friend. "What the hell?!"

"Good morning, Santana," Rachel says with prim sweetness, as if it's every day she wakes up to Santana cuddling Quinn like an over-sized teddy bear in the early morning after discovering that they had almost-rough-sex in her bathroom. 

Santana, stuck in that half asleep state where a brain does not want to become fully alert, seems less concerned about Rachel being witness to her affection to Quinn than she is being woken up at all. She uses Quinn's t-shirt as a makeshift blindfold, burying her face in the fabric of Quinn's shoulder as she growls, " What the fuck time is it? Are you seriously waking us up? What's wrong with you? Were you raised by Jewish wolves?!" 

"Santana-" 

"God-dammit, Rachel go the fuck away until at least noon or I'm going to go all Lima Boyle Heights on your ass." 

And... that's new. Rachel frowns, also thrown at the upgraded term. And it seems she can't help her own curiosity. "Lima _Boyle_ Heights?" she asks tentatively, as Quinn rolls her eyes. 

"It's like... the dump behind Lima Heights," Santana grumps because this apparently makes perfect sense to her. She remains in her same position, face buried in Quinn's shoulder, mewling in aggravation as she tugs at Quinn's waist and throws the blankets over her face. "Quinn tell her to fuck off." 

It shouldn't be half as adorable as it actually is. 

Rachel, however, doesn't seem to share her amusement. Her brow lifts and she stares at Quinn meaningfully. "Quinn," she hisses, which starts Santana growling again, and this will be a blood bath if there's no intervention. 

Also, Santana's cuddled so close to her she's actually getting really warm. 

Quinn pulls back at the blankets to reveal the scrunched, grumpy face. "Santana." She ignores the near hiss she receives and the way Santana tries to fruitlessly tug the blanket back up in favor carefully smoothing away a dark strand of hair that's managed to lodge itself into the side of Santana's mouth. "Get some sleep. Rachel and I will be back." 

Being the lazy and sleepy bitch that she is, Santana doesn't complain too much. "Promise me that I get to kill her when you come back," is all she says behind her closed eyes. "We can hang her by her toes off the fire escape." 

"That's so uncalled for," Rachel huffs and Quinn disagrees. 

"I promise," she says, causing Rachel to roll her eyes and Santana to smile sleepily. 

"That's my girl," she purrs and blindly reaches for her hand to press a lingering kiss against her fingers. 

It's a thoughtless act of affection, but it causes such a jolt within her that Quinn is momentarily frozen. 

Swallowing down any emotion she may have, Quinn quickly rearranges herself and slides out of the bed and Santana's embrace. 

She is unfortunately aware of the way Rachel watches them closely the entire time. 

*********  
Rachel is oddly quiet as they descend the stairs. 

"Quinn?" 

"Yes, Rachel?" Quinn responds sweetly, pulling open the door that will let them out onto the chilly street and into the bustle of New York city. 

"You're not actually going to let her hang me by my toes." 

"I don't know, Rachel, I did promise," she answers gravely. 

The pale look on Rachel's is almost enough to make the morning just a little bit brighter. 

*********

The bagel shop nearly two blocks over is crowded and dingy, even for this time of day. It looks like a hovel, but Rachel insists that these are where they make the best bagels in the neighborhood. 

Still, no matter how delicious bagels are, Quinn isn't sure it's worth the carbs to have to stand for twenty minutes just to get a grimy little table for two that is so close to the others she keeps getting elbowed in the head by the jerk sitting behind them. 

And yes, the lox spread is actually very good and spreads like whipped butter over her appropriately chewy and nicely toasted onion bagel, and the coffee is surprisingly tasty considering the muck of a coffee maker it's poured from, but it's hard to enjoy any of it when one is partaking with Rachel Berry and that look she keeps giving her in between dainty bites of her everything bagel topped with vegan spread. 

She seems to be biding her time, in no hurry to begin what will more than likely be the most awkward conversation that Quinn's had in a while, and that is very unlike the Rachel she knew. Waiting for her to actually say something feels a little like torture. 

With a sigh, Quinn puts down her bagel. "Just get it out, okay?" 

When Rachel, in the middle of a sip of her coffee, nearly chokes on the liquid, Quinn realizes that Rachel is dreading this conversation as much as she is. The woman actually shakes as she tries to hack her way into breathing. 

It would be infinitely more amusing if little coffee droplets hadn't flown out of her lips and landed on her bagel. 

Quinn supposes it's for the best. She has no appetite at all. 

"Sorry!" she rasps, and Quinn rolls her eyes and takes her own bitter gulp of coffee. 

It's unsatisfying. She's tired... What little she did sleep was overtaken by that horrible dream, and even though she didn't drink enough to get an actual hangover, she can feel the effects of dehydration. 

Water would have been a better bet than this coffee. 

Staying home in New Haven would have been a better bet than this bagel. 

Rachel's choking fit has reduced to a bit of a snivel, and now that it looks like she may actually live, Quinn wordlessly hands over a stray napkin that Rachel accepts with a sweet word of thanks. 

"Okay then," she breathes, inhaling deeply and exhaling again. "Now that I'm okay... we can get started." 

Oh geez. Her brow arches in annoyance. "We can?" 

Rachel's fingers twitch in front of her. She wants to bring it up. It's written all over her face. Rachel is struggling for a way to introduce the fact that Quinn has had a big gay moment in her bathroom with Santana Lopez. 

So they can discuss it. 

Process it. 

It would amusing if this wasn't actually happening to Quinn. 

"Right," Rachel says when her courage is sufficiently built, "So... what happened last night-" 

"Is absolutely none of your business," Quinn says smoothly, which is true and logical and of course will do nothing to stop Rachel Barbra Berry from sticking her imperfect nose right in the middle of this already very complicated situation. 

"Um, Kurt and his antiques would very much disagree." Rachel's lip twitches, because apparently there is some part of this that's amusing to her too. 

Quinn isn't ready to share in the laughter. "I'll replace the stupid antiques." 

"Are you gay, Quinn?" 

"Are you serious?!" she sputters, because really, that is so not appropriate. 

"Or is just Santana that you're attracted to?" Rachel is staring at her with that same infuriating concerned look, asking her this fucking question when less than a foot away, the jerk who nearly brushed her boob on his way to sit down gives her a long stare. 

"Rachel, stop." 

"I just want to help!" Rachel is of course infuriatingly diplomatic. "I don't know for sure but I can't imagine you've discussed this with Santana and... I just... I may not be gay but I was obviously raised in a very open and loving environment, having two gay dads and all, and though I'll never rule out falling in love with the fairer sex-" 

It's too early in the morning to hear an opening monologue on Rachel's supposed sexual fluidity. "Rachel-" 

"Santana IS very beautiful and has very cushy lips-"

"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, and wonders briefly if this is some sort of karmic injustice for never allowing her mother to have the 'birds and the bees' talk with her before she fell pregnant. 

Rachel has apparently been distracted by day dreaming about the scenario and now has a faraway, glassy look on her face that is starting to be more than a little disturbing. "I mean, the both of you are just so very attractive... just picturing it was like, the hottest thing that Brody and I-" 

OH GOOD GOD.

"Rachel! Shut the hell up!" Quinn snaps, loud enough to not only shut up Rachel, but everyone in the little dingy bagel shop. Now the every customer is staring, and Quinn, cheeks flaming and head aching, has had enough. 

She gets up and shifts around Rachel, leaving her bagel and her coffee and heading for the door. 

Quinn walks furiously, doing her very best to NOT picture Rachel and her boytoy engaging in some very kinky roleplay with she and Santana as guest stars, when Rachel catches up to her.

"I'm sorry!" she snaps, hooking her hand on Quinn's wrist and holding her back. "Just stop!" 

Quinn doesn't stop. She keeps her gaze forward as she snaps, "Rachel, I'm only going to say this once. Butt out. What happened last night was because we were drunk and high and-"

"And it's not the first time it's happened." 

Quinn stumbles on a crack of concrete she swears wasn't there before. Rachel catches her, keeps her upright and lets her regain her balance. Quinn is forced to keep hold of Rachel's wrists, and when she looks, she sees stern brown eyes that stare at her, daring her to contradict that statement. 

Quinn can't. But she wants to. She's not ready for this. Not now. 

Maybe Rachel can sense it. "You and I have been through too much to lie to each other, Quinn." 

"Then don't make me lie," she whispers, her voice aching with a silent pleading. Rachel is a relentless force, and as strong as Quinn knows she is, Rachel has always known how to make her crumble. 

She can't do that now, not when she's not sure she has the will or the strength to build her walls up again. 

But Rachel just keeps staring, and it's horrible. She's looking for something to hold onto, seeking out every twitch of Quinn's harsh expression, waiting for the moment when she will see Quinn and understand. 

But how can Rachel understand what Quinn doesn't? 

She doesn't understand these feelings. She doesn't understand why Santana is such a maelstrom of emotion and why she's so vulnerable to it. She doesn't understand why she wants to kiss her all the time or why she's so terrified. She doesn't understand why she can hate Santana and love her so much and she doesn't understand how she can so selflessly want Santana to be happy and so selfishly want it to be WITH HER. 

She doesn't even understand what that even means. 

Rachel's fingers rub against her own. 

It's chilly in New York. Pedestrians walk around them without a second glance. They are just two strangers and in the grand scheme of things, they mean nothing. Quinn and her inner turmoil seems to small... so insignificant. 

"You know you can talk to me, right Quinn?" Rachel's voice is soft; soothing. "I care about you, okay, and I promise, I won't judge. We all make mistakes-" 

Mistakes. 

The word causes an angry shiver to race up Quinn's spine, so electric it nearly scalds her. "Oh really?" she snaps, because damn, Rachel really can't help being such an annoying ass sometimes, can she? "This is you not judging? Because you suck at it!" 

Brown eyes flash. Rachel's jaw squares. "I'm _concerned_ ," she snaps, a biting at the word in such a way it makes Quinn's eyes roll even harder. "There's a difference. Because you're scared and hurting and confused and I can't just see that and not do anything about it!" 

Quinn has been so focused on being angry that she hasn't realized she's got actual tears in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?!" she asks, whirling and pinning Rachel with that liquid stare.

She hates that Rachel sees the moisture; hates how Rachel winces at the hurt, softens in the face of Quinn's obvious torment. 

It makes her weak. It makes her foolish. 

Rachel's fingers link with hers, and its just enough support to make Quinn feel like she's beginning to fail. She tries to pull away; Rachel doesn't let her. 

"Because I love you!" Rachel says, quietly and fervently. "Because you've been trying so hard to be a friend to Santana, that you've forgotten that you need a friend too." 

And she can't...

She can't... 

Quinn's face crumples; she has no strength to fight the words. 

When Rachel's arms come up around her, Quinn has no will to do anything but bury her face in Rachel's neck and silently sob. 

*********

There's a neighborhood garden that sits between two concrete building a block away. Rachel finds a bench that's colored with graffiti and there they sit quietly, in this little bit of paradise that Rachel assures her should be much more impressive in the spring, when the tomato plants fruit and the chill mellows to let the green things grow. 

Quinn's sobs have reduced to tears. The tears that streams have left behind wet tracks though Quinn does her best to wipe them away. 

A diner napkin, maybe even the same gross one she gave to Rachel, is now crumpled in her palms damp with her tears. 

To her credit, Rachel has not said a word. She has simply sat and waited, shivering ever so slightly as she watches the way the New York denizens go about their day in front of them. 

Quinn fingers at the graffiti, traces along the lines of a bright green letter. _“I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?”_

Rachel blinks, unsure what to make of it. "What?" 

Quinn smiles painfully. "It's a quote. From _Alice in Wonderland_." 

"Oh." Rachel doesn't seem to know what to do with that. "Okay." 

Quinn exhales slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admits quietly. 

Rachel absorbs that, and offers a soft, dry chuckle. "Yeah," she agrees. "No offense Quinn, but... duh." 

Quinn feels almost empty and almost outside of herself at the same time. It's an odd feeling, but it allows her to appreciate Rachel's amusement. "Yeah, look who's talking, Mrs. Finn Hudson." 

Maybe it's a cheap shot, but Rachel's a good enough sport to laugh along with her. "I never said I was any better off." 

The admission makes her feel better. 

"Quinn... we may have had our differences but you know I adore Santana." Quinn swallows hard. She doesn't look at Rachel, but she listens, even as the napkin in her hand becomes tangled in shreds from her nervous rubbing. "But, she's in a very emotionally vulnerable state-" 

"You don't think I know that?" she hisses, because she does. Of course she does. "I can't believe we're talking about this." 

"And she's still in love with Brittany." 

Quinn's eyes flutter shut. She takes in a harsh breath. "Rachel, it's not-" 

"I don't know if you guys are just messing around or if you've even talked about what you're doing, but... you and Santana have always had a complicated relationship and I just don't know if you should make it more... complex." 

Quinn can't help the hurt, hysterical bit of laughter that pounds out of her chest. "Don't you think it's a little too late for that?" 

Rachel regards her silently. "Maybe. But maybe you also need to hear it out loud. If you're just experimenting with a friend..."

"Rachel," she whispers. The tears are stinging again and Quinn CAN'T DO THIS NOW. "I can't-" 

Maybe Rachel has actually discovered a tiny iota of empathy, because she doesn't finish her sentence. "Okay," she says instead, and squeezes Quinn's hand reassuringly. "I'm shutting up. Just know I'm here, if there's anything you'd like... to get off your chest. Though based on what Kurt said, it was the other way around." 

Quinn blinks, thrown by the statement until she actually looks at Rachel and sees the impish smile growing on the other women's face. 

It's infectious, and Quinn wants so badly to laugh. "Shut up," she rasps. 

They're sitting here on this bench in New York, and Quinn is being teased about Santana's breasts by Rachel Berry. 

She has no idea why it makes it all okay, but it does. 

Rachel's smile widens into a full on grin. "... So is she as good a kisser as Brittany said she was?" 

"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, because this is an actual conversation they're actually having and not make believe. 

"I'm sorry!" Rachel's shoulder bumps companionably against her own. "Inquiring minds want to know!" 

Quinn's cheek flush pink, but she can't help but admit, "She's better." 

Rachel sucks in a lungful of air. Quinn can't tell if she's scandalized or turned on. "What do her boobs feel like? Can you tell they're fake?!" 

"RACHEL!" she gasps, but she's laughing despite herself. Sometimes she really loves inappropriate Rachel. "I'm not answering that!" 

The sun is growing more powerful, and some of the early morning chill has faded away. Quinn discovers herself able to breathe without wanting to crumple inside herself and though her eyes ache, they're dry. She finds the strength to rise off the bench. Rachel goes with her. 

"One more thing," she hears as Rachel falls into step beside her. 

Quinn shakes her head emphatically. "No more. Oversharing. TMI. Stop it." 

"Relax," Rachel says dryly. "It's about Kurt's Antique Soap Dish." 

Quinn blinks, and offers her friend a curiously raised brow. "Yes?" 

Rachel doesn't look at her. "Let's just say that someone may already broken something very similar and found the replacement at Pottery Barn." 

Quinn nearly stumbles in surprise, but when Rachel nods knowingly at her, she finds herself exploding in laughter. 

 

*********

"Oh My God," they hear the moment Rachel pulls back the metal door at the entrance of the loft. "Are you some kind of Devil woman?!" The cry is anguished and weary. 

"Less talking, more pumping. Let's go, Donkey! Man up!" 

Santana, still in her tiny cotton shorts and wearing a 'Yale' tank top that belongs to Quinn, stretches out over the floor, doing military style pushups beside a bare-chested Brody, who huffs and puffs as he counts along beside her. 

Quinn's steps falter, taking in the scene that is presented to her. "What are they doing?" Rachel whispers, and Quinn has absolutely no idea. 

"Come on!" Santana snaps, features contorting with effort as she leads Brody into another set. They've clearly been at this for a while. Santana's muscles are tight, moving like sinew under her shining skin as she inhales and exhales, tossing Brody a scathing glare between sets. "You are SUCH a pansy." 

Brody emits an enraged squeak that sounds a bit like neutered Chipmunk as he shoves himself up one more time, struggling to keep up with Santana's relentless pace. "Seriously, what the hell!? Where the hell-"

Quinn can no longer contain her curiosity. "Santana," she says in what she hopes is a sweet and civil manner. "What exactly are you two doing?" 

The brunette head lifts, and Santana's dark eyes fall on her as she blows a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "This asshole had the stupidity to say Cheerleading isn't a real sport and Cheerleaders aren't real athletes." 

Oh. 

Quinn's mouth presses into a firm line, doing her best to contain her amusement as Rachel issues a dramatic gasp. "Ohhh, Brody!" Rachel whispers, hand to her mouth at his stupidity. "Honey." She looks very sorry for her meathead boyfriend. 

Quinn has absolutely no pity. Santana is a thin, small woman, but her body is obviously all muscle. The only fat on her body appears to be on her actual boobs and it's not as if Santana doesn't wear clothing that doesn't accentuate that. Brody would have to be an idiot not to recognize Santana's athletic potential. 

Sexism is what put Brody in this pickle, and it's only sheer pride that's keeping him in the game. It's almost comical to see the way his heavily muscled frame struggles to keep up with the lighter, quicker, and it seems, stronger, Santana. 

"COME ON!" Santana barks, and Brody whines in annoyance. 

"What?!" he huffs indelicately, wheezing with the strain. "It's _cheerleading_!" 

A former cheerleader herself, Quinn can't help but take offense. She shakes her head, shifting the bag of bagels on her hip. "Yeah, well, it kinda looks like that cheerleader is kicking your pansy dancer ass," she comments ruefully. Brody shoots her an unappreciative glare. It loses it's effectiveness when she realizes that that's pretty much all he can do. His arms have begun to tremble now, and enough of the athlete in Quinn still exists to note he is over-exerting himself and will injure himself soon. 

She flickers her gaze back to Santana, and discovers the other woman smirking at her. Her mouth is open and she is breathing heavy, but her movements remain fluid and strong. 

A by-product of the Cheerios harsh training regime, and a testament to Santana's stamina. 

God, that should not be as sexy as it is. 

A brush of Rachel's hand against her elbow breaks her from her dangerous daze. "Quinn, please," Rachel whispers. Quinn recognizes it as a plea for leniency. 

Brody huffs and puffs like a demented wolf. It's clear Santana has proved her point. "Santana," she calls out dryly. "Heel." 

Santana's body jerks sharply and the smirk fades immediately. Quinn's smile grows, because even though it's obvious Santana resents being commanded like a dog, there's enough of Quinn's Head Cheerio authority still instilled in her to stop what she's doing and push to her feet. 

"God, fine," she growls and leans into a stretch, soothing the aching muscles. "We're done, Donkey." 

Brody flattens against the floor with a dull thud and a whimper. "Ow." 

Quinn has to work hard to resist laughing, and gets a pinch from Rachel in punishment before her friend heads to her crippled boyfriend. "Oh he had it coming," Quinn grumbles. Rachel ignores her. 

"That's how we do it in Lima Heights, bitch." Santana's flushed with both exertion and victory. Her eyes shine and she pumps her fist like a dork as she watches Rachel kneel against her crippled boyfriend. 

She's proud in a way she hasn't been proud since she's shown up in New Haven. It's a silly victory, but it's a victory all the same, and Quinn understands why it would mean something to her. 

So she offers her a smile as she comes forward, aware of how the damp tank top clings to Santana in a way it doesn't quite seem to on Quinn, stretching fabric out in front thanks to the rambunctious twins, who make themselves even more prominent thanks to the way Santana pants. 

She stares at Quinn like she's expecting some sort of medal. 

"What?" Quinn asks, in the mood to be stubborn. "You're all sweaty. I'm not touching you." 

It pisses Santana off a little. "Really, that's how you're going to reward the victor, bitch?" 

Quinn's chest tightens, suddenly unsure, until Santana's eyes dance with mischief and her hand lifts for a high five, like they're dudes. Resisting every urge to roll her eyes, Quinn slaps a bagel into the palm instead. 

"Congratulations," she drawls. "I will admit, as lesbian and butch as that was, it was impressive." 

And a little hot. 

Her eyes linger on Santana's, note the way the moisture gathers on Santana's upper lip, and the way Santana's tongue darts out to taste at the salt. 

Right. 

Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn averts her eyes and looks instead toward Rachel, who has adopted a different strategy to appease her boyfriend and his wounded ego. She places his head on her lap and brushes her hand through his damp hair. "Brody, honey," she says, with patience and exasperation. "Santana had a full athletic scholarship to the University of Louisville and is a three-time national cheerleading champion. Do you not remember me telling you that?"

Brody's eyes widen. He stares uncertainly at Santana, who arches a challenging brow in return. "Yeah, no, I didn't remember you telling me that." 

"What you think these abs are just for show?" Santana asks, and actually goes so far as lifting Quinn's Yale shirt up to display her (yes, admittedly) impressive six pack. 

Quinn's not sure she can handle that right now. "Santana, put that away. You're acting like you're on _Jersey Shore_ and it's not cute." Not trusting Santana to do it herself, she yanks the shirt down to a respectable distance, and ignores the way Santana's fingers attempt to cling at hers possessively. 

It does little to keep Santana from soaking in her victory over the straight dude. "Rachel, if this is the kind of stamina the donkey displays on a regular basis, I pity you. I really do." 

And of course she made it about sex. 

Donkey-Brody looks affronted, but it's Rachel and the way that her eyes linger on Santana's fingers clasped against her own that cause Quinn to shake off the grip and drop the bag of bagels on a nearby table. "Where's Kurt?" 

"In bed. Dry heaving and cursing God," Santana says, lifting a water bottle to her lips and sucking down a good gulp. "I gave him a honey sandwich and made him drink two bottles of water with a multivitamin. He should be fine tonight to go out." 

It's an absurdly cohesive statement coming from Santana. 

"What?" she snaps when she realizes they are all staring. "He needs the calories and that sandwich is easy to digest." 

"And you know this how?" Rachel asks. 

Quinn admits she's mildly intrigued. 

"I was a candy striper in high school!" Santana snaps, clearly insulted. "Assholes. I can be nurturing." 

Not that Quinn is ever one to throw a fellow Cheerio under the bus (most of the time), but she has her suspicions. "I remember seeing that outfit exactly once, and that was right before you gave me mono." 

Santana freezes mid-drink. She absorbs that statement, and after a beat, lets a scampy grin float across her face. "Sharing is caring, Quinn." 

Bitch. 

"Do you still have the outfit?" Brody is apparently over how they do it in Lima Heights enough to go back to being a guy. 

Rachel has no words, and merely smacks at her pervy boyfriend's shoulder hard. 

"Ouch! So you can borrow it!" 

*********

It's a lazy New Years Eve. Though the loft is crowded, it's surprisingly quiet. Quinn sits on the sofa with her books. She fingers her cell phone idly, and notes that it has been three days since she's heard from David. 

Have they broken up? 

Quinn discovers that she doesn't exactly care. 

It's odd, considering how only a few weeks ago she considered him the center of her world. 

Perspective is a tricky, funny thing. 

"You okay?" It's Santana who sinks down beside her. Her hair is damp, combed through and ready to be styled for the night's festivities. She's devoid of make up and wears only a pair of sweats and a grey tank top. 

She's so beautiful she takes Quinn's breath away. 

For some reason, the realization just makes Quinn's sad heart grow sadder still.

But Santana is watching with an expression that is dangerously close to worry, so for her Quinn manages a tight, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine." 

Santana looks unsure. "You were out for a long time with Rachel," she says, stating the obvious. 

"I was," Quinn acknowledges. She lets her fingers trace over the pages of her textbook, feeling the sharpness of the page's edge dig slightly into her skin. Not enough to give her a paper cut, but enough to remind her that it could. 

"Do I have kick Rachel's ass? Cause I do remember promising to hang her by her toes." 

Santana, protective and sweet. Quinn's smile trembles just a bit. "I think she's earned a reprieve," she says, and presses a gentle hand against Santana's forearm, squeezing lightly before letting go. 

She feels... passive in the wake of her release with Rachel. 

Quinn isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. "Quinn." Her eyes lift once again to Santana, and discovers a serious expression on a gorgeous face. "Seriously, are we okay?" 

Santana has no joke for her. No snarky comment to alleviate the tension. Instead of being that snarky bitchy Quinn can usually count on, she's sitting beside Quinn with genuine concern and worry. Right now she isn't a sexpot or a bitch, but a true friend who is afraid that they've been too affected to move past this. 

Rachel is right. Their relationship is complex. 

But she cares, and Santana cares, and that's more than most people have in a lifetime. 

She puts down her book and shifts her body, until her hands are tangled with Santana's and she's only inches away. "We're good, Santana," she promises. Santana looks at her intensely, unsure whether or not to believe her. Quinn's heart trembles at the insecurity, and so she allows herself to lift her palm and press it softly against Santana's warm cheek. She notes the way Santana's eyes flutter; how her breath goes slightly uneven for just a moment before she regains the steady rhythm. "Look," Quinn begins, her expression sweet and optimistic. "It's New Years Eve and we're in New York, so why don't we spend today and tonight celebrating the fact that we have survived this crap of a year..." Santana's mouth twitches, a phantom smile that is a start at least. "And we worry about the rest later?" 

An unsteady breath floats across her finger tips. Santana's hand covers her own, squeezing tightly. She's looking at Quinn with such tenderness, it breaks her heart. "You know I love you, Quinn, don't you?" 

And she does. Quinn knows that absolutely. Santana loves her as much as she is capable. 

"Yeah," she admits. "I know." With fondness and a lover's touch, Quinn allows her smile to reach her eyes. "I love you, too." 

*********


	8. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night

It’s New Year’s Eve in New York City. 

The streets are flooded with people: guys with greasy, slicked back hair and shined black boots while girls dress in tight, barely there dresses, shivering in fashionable throws and leather jackets that do nothing to battle the chill of the evening. They balance on painful stilettos and carry tiny purses that Quinn is reasonably certain will be lost by the end of the night. 

The mantra of the evening is ‘celebrate!’ and yet for some reason it all reeks of a familiar type of desperation that makes Quinn feel like she’ll just be one more in the crowd. 

Quinn lost her taste for obscenely high heels after her accident. Her spine will not tolerate them. Instead, she picks wedges that seem almost subdued compared to the stiletto heels that Santana seems so comfortable in. She wears a dress that flares at the waist, because she isn’t a cheerleader anymore and has been told one too many times by her mother that her thighs are bigger than they should be. 

Her hair, which used to be one of her best assets, feels stiff and lifeless, and though Quinn applies her makeup and knows she looks GOOD, she doesn’t feel beautiful. 

It’s funny; she’s been called beautiful so many times. Quinn wonders how many times she will actually hear it before it sinks in and she actually believes it.

She stands at the mirror in Kurt and Rachel’s bathroom, uncapping her lipstick and focusing only on her own reflection. There is an energy here that practically crackles with static, and Quinn hates it. Her mind fights her, desperate to relive the events of yesterday evening.

Quinn is stubborn in her urge to forget. She ignores the cracked soap dish. She’s thankful for the fact that Kurt has taken it upon himself to scrub the entire vanity so it stinks like bleach. 

“Verdict?” Santana lingers in the doorway; hand on her hip, presenting herself for inspection. 

Quinn straightens, and though her chest tightens, under the guise of friendship, she is allowed to look. She does. She notes and appreciates the unforgiving stilettos that strap to Santana’s perfectly tanned feet. She lingers, journeying up Santana's strong legs, noting that Santana’s dress, like all her others, fits her like a second skin. It’s low cut, displaying that gorgeous cleavage that Santana is so proud of. She’s wears a vivid bright red, because, like everything Santana chooses to be, this outfit is meant to be noticed. 

Her dark brown hair flows over her shoulder in calculated curls that remind Quinn of forties lounge singer, and the result is… perfect. 

Quinn finally reaches Santana’s twinkling dark eyes. 

“What?” Santana’s head tilts. Her grin widens. “No words?” 

It’s not that the spell is broken, but… Quinn gets her words back. 

She exhales unsteadily, and manages an unimpressed sigh as she tears her eyes away from the vision in the doorway and does her best to continue her work on herself. “What do you want me to say?” she asks airily. “You know you’re gorgeous.” 

“Well, duh,” she hears, and hates how she takes notice of the way Santana steps into the bathroom. “But it’s always nice to be told, Quinn.” 

“Leave the door open.” 

Quinn blurts the words, and they catch Santana by surprise. She pauses, her hand on the door, before her dark eyes dart from the door to Quinn. 

She remembers. Maybe she sees the ghosts too, the way Santana stood exactly where Quinn stood before… the way they wanted each other so openly. 

Her hand goes unsteady, and in frustration, Quinn recaps her lipstick, searching instead for her blush. She forces herself not look into the reflection. 

“Don’t trust me?” Santana’s voice is meant to be teasing, but it’s laced with something. Whatever it is… is affecting. 

What does it mean when the person she doesn’t trust is herself? 

Quinn waits until she can control her tone, keep her expression neutral. “I never trust you,” she says, eyes lifting as her mouth widens into a bitchy smirk. Santana rolls her eyes, and it’s good. It keeps the status quo. “But that’s beside the point.” 

“God,” Santana sighs, and shuts the door anyway. “Don’t tell me you’re actually honoring Kurt’s stupid ‘open door’ policy.” 

“It’s called being polite.” 

“It’s New Year’s Eve!” Santana says emphatically, and presses her hips against the vanity, eyes on her friend as she continues to work on her face. “Who has time for polite?” 

Quinn has to admit, she has a point. Still, she’s thankful for the fact that Santana keeps her hands to herself, crossed and over her chest as she watches Quinn sweep the blush across her cheekbones. “You look good, Quinn.” 

She doesn’t say Quinn looks beautiful. 

Quinn doesn’t know why she’s grateful for that. The brush comes down, and Quinn stares into the mirror, focusing on her figure… her face. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” she admits. 

Santana exhales through her nose, and pushes off the vanity, stepping up behind her to dig her fingers in Quinn’s long blonde locks and tangle them up experimentally. “You wanna put it up?” she asks.

She’s asking as a friend. Santana is doing what they’ve done for years: best friends primping and polishing each other, making sure they look their absolute best. 

She hates how different it feels. How her eyes flutter at just the briefest of touches. How Santana’s breath skating past her exposed neck causes a shudder that she’s absolutely sure Santana has to notice. 

She looks into the mirror and looks into Santana’s eyes. 

Dark eyes regard her just as intensely, but Santana doesn’t say a word. 

“I’ll need help,” she manages. 

“Pass me thembobby pins, then,” Santana says after a moment, and so Quinn does. It’s sweet… in a way. They’re quiet and Quinn holds obediently still as Santana twists her hair and expertly pins it, the way she’s donefor years. 

“Sometimes I think about cutting it again,” she admits, as Santana arranges a lock to fall delicately over her brow. 

Distracted, Santana offers a proud smirk. “Well, I do give a fabulous haircut, if I do say so myself.” 

Quinn laughs, eyes rolling at the idea and the memory. “Yeah, cause that turned out so well.” 

“What? It was hot!” 

Maybe. Santana isn’t looking at her. She’s got a pin in her mouth, and her brow is wrinkled, focused on the task at hand. It brings with it a vulnerability to Santana that Quinn decides she’s actually lucky to see. 

She and Santana have been anything but good for each other, both as friends and… whatever this muddiness is. And yet there have been moments in between all that that have been so intimate… meant so much… 

No one has ever had the capacity to wound Quinn and still warm her heart, create such extreme highs and lows with her affection the way Santana can. 

It’s frightening, how similar they are. 

So why was it so easy to drift apart? How did they even get to the point where she allowed her own pettiness to override her concern for a friend who was so obviously hurting?

Had Santana never shown up in New Haven, would Quinn even think of her now? 

Santana tugs lightly. Quinn’s eyes close for a sacred, tender moment as she allows herself to be played with. When her eyes open, she’s greeted with Santana’s gorgeous smile. 

This beautiful woman is staring at her as if she’s the only woman in the world. 

Santana fingers reach over to skim across her cheek, curling an errant strand over Quinn’s dainty ear. “There. Gorgeous. They won’t know what hit them.” 

She is. She’s gorgeous. They’re gorgeous, standing together in perfect contrast. “You know, sometimes I miss this.” 

She means their friendship. Their closeness. The way Santana smiles at her and the sweetness of her smell. The way they can simply just BE together. 

And yet what she means and what the words turn into are not the same thing. 

Not when Santana’s so close, pressed in behind her, with dark smoky eyes and a perfect, kissable mouth. 

Fingers brush against her the sensitive skin of her neck, and suddenly Santana’s intent doesn’t seem so innocent anymore. 

“What do you miss, Quinn?” she hears, in a tone so low and full of meaning Quinn can’t help the way her body responds, blood rushing hard to that ache between her legs that makes her want so badly.

The door slams open with a bang, so loud and forceful both Quinn and Santana jump, landing on opposite ends of the bathroom. 

Kurt’s eyes are wild. He stares at them both with a maniacal stare that seems incomprehensible. “What’s going on in here?!” he shrieks. 

“WHAT THE FUCK, KURT?!” Santana snaps.

Kurt is unapologetic. “Open Door Policy!” He snaps, and kicks a doorstop against the wooden door, wedging it open. “And stop hogging the bathroom. We were supposed to leave for the bar twenty minutes ago.” 

There is one more pointed glare, and then Kurt backs out of the bathroom, looking like some sort of demented troll. “Open door!”

“I think we scarred him,” Quinn notes in the quiet that follows. 

Santana stares at her, looking so furious that Quinn finds herself giggling. 

“Whatever,” Santana says after a moment, so grumpy that it’s adorable. She takes one more look at Quinn, before she moves to the open exit. “I don’t know what the friggin rush is. Do I even want to know what kind of bar Kurt and Rachel consider cool?" 

*********

Quinn isn’t sure why she is at all surprised that the answer to that question is a piano bar in New York near the NYADA campus called ‘Callbacks’. It’s filled the brim, and the minute they’re within sight of it, Rachel squeals and begins an animated conversation with both Brody and Kurt about the songs they’re going to sing when they get there. 

Bringing up the rear, palm curled into Quinn’s elbow, Santana could not look more disgusted. She stops immediately, and emits a noise that could be a squawk or something that sounds very much like the snort that the horse she rode during her childhood equestrian classes made when he disagreed with her. 

“We’re at a Karaoke Bar for New Years?” she asks, brow arched so high on her head it nearly disappears. “Tell me this is a joke.” 

Quinn doesn’t have the heart to break it to her that this is all entirely sincere. She simply squeezes her hand, and offers a smirk. “Not what you had in mind?” 

Rachel glances back and notices. She’s beautiful tonight. Her hair is curled in a wispy way that frames her face perfectly, and her eyes are dark and shining. She smiles and it’s a little breathtaking, before she hops over a puddle of melting snow that looks slushy enough to slip in. She grabs hold of both of their wrists and pulls, dragging them towards the madness. 

“Welcome to New York, Santana,” she says, broad and stunning and looking so at home it’s disconcerting. “You’re gonna love it here.” 

At the very least, it gets them walking. Rachel only lets go when Brody curls an arm around her waist, picking her up as If she were a newborn kitten and hauling her to the entrance of the bar. 

“She’s demented,” Santana breathes, but there’s something in her eyes as she watches the dramatic trio in front of them. 

For Quinn, the world stills. 

On Christmas Eve she was alone in New Haven. There’s so much anger inside of her that it overtakes her so easily along with her bitterness. And yet… not nearly two weeks later it’s New Year’s Eve. 

Quinn is in New York City and it’s frigid. Around her there are shouts of laughter and cars that honk. Quinn blinks when a snowflake lands daintily on her eyelid. 

In front of her is the laughing, gorgeous form of Rachel Berry, who held her when she cried and told her it was okay to be scared. Beside her is Santana, who curls into her for warmth and support, who looks at her with a disturbed smile that is so quintessentially her. 

Quinn’s confusion persists, but there is something inside her that settles in a way that makes it feel less like confusion and more like hope. 

Quinn has been called evil, selfish, manipulative and callous so many times. 

She wasn’t sure when she stared believing that could be true. 

It’s not. Quinn is not without faults, but she has her strengths too. 

She’s alive and well on New Years Eve, with friends who love her, despite everything she has chosen to be and not to be. 

“Quinn?” 

She meets Santana’s uncertain expression with a whisper and a grin. “She’s also right.” 

It’s enough. Tonight, it’s enough. 

*********

It’s only when they’ve managed to squeeze together at a tiny table that should realistically only seat four, that Kurt turns to them both and lays his elbows on the table. 

"Okay, Satan,” he begins, all business despite the near shout –level decibel he has to keep his voice in the noisy piano bar. “Considering the … incidents that have already happened...” His eyes flicker accusingly between Quinn and Santana. 

Quinn supposes it’s the magic of New Years that makes it so easy not to care that Santana is practically in her lap. There are legitimate reasons for the way Santana is curled into her side – there’s not much room. But she supposes that if she had to logically give a purpose for why her arm crosses over back of Santana’s chair, allowing the other woman to practically sink in against her, she wouldn’t have one other than she wants her close. 

Santana smells good. She feels good. And Quinn has a promise; a reprieve that tonight is a night without consequence. There is no Brittany or David or harsh choices or smart decisions. There is only desire and want and the simple pleasure of being with someone she is attracted to; someone she loves; someone she trusts. 

Rachel stares at her, clearly trying to say something with those large doe eyes, but the atmosphere of this little Piano Bar is joyous and freeing. Quinn lets her stare, as her fingers curl and rub affectionately and rhythmically against Santana’s shoulder. 

A warm palm is already on her leg, spread possessively and intimately against her thigh. It squeezes, molding into Quinn’s muscles with heat and an addicting tingle that shoots up her leg. 

“It’s time to talk Ground Rules,” Kurt snaps, looking a little exasperated. Quinn snorts, but the smile falters when he opens his jacket pocket and produces what looks like an actual scroll, bound by dainty little leather straps. 

The scroll is unrolled before them, skidding to a stop as it flows over the wood. 

“What the hell is this?” Santana asks, and Quinn curiously reaches forward with her free hand, bringing it over to their side of the table. There is an extreme amount of calligraphy on the lilac-colored page. 

“It’s a contract.” 

Santana, clearly suspicious, lifts her hand off of Quinn’s thigh to reach for the paper. She shoots Quinn a look that practically screams annoyance, and brings the offending article to her nose. “It’s scented!” 

Quinn can’t help but huff in amused disbelief. Kurt is unrepentant. “That loft is our sanctuary, and it can be yours if you just abide by the rules.” 

Santana drops the paper. Quinn, always an avid reader, picks it up gamely. "Okay, hold up, Lady Hummel. I never said I was living with you two."

Rachel, happily settled on Brody’s lap, gives Santana a look that reminds Quinn very much of an adult speaking to a child. “Santana, come on. You know you belong here.” 

Quinn rolls her eyes. She continues to scan the roommate contract, and purses her lips at the prose. It begins, interestingly enough, like a mock declaration of independence. 

_When in the Course of human co-habitation, it becomes necessary for one people to acknowledge the bonds of friendship which have connected them with another, a decent respect to the opinions of the other..._

“Shouldn’t that be my decision?” 

Quinn keeps reading, skimming past the flowery declaration that makes no sense, except for the part where Rachel and Kurt declare themselves platonic soul mates forever, and moves on to the aforementioned Ground Rules. 

“And it is,” Rachel’s tone is adorably patronizing, though Quinn is pretty sure Santana won’t appreciate the cuteness of it. “But if you decide on living here-” 

An unexpected chortle breaks out of her mouth. “Rule 9 is that every Thursday you watch Rupaul’s Drag Race and then debate the winner.” 

“That’s non-negotiable.” 

Santana’s hand once again lands on her thigh, though the squeeze she delivers seems less affectionate and more a plea for sanity. “Are you serious? Even Donkey the Ken Doll?”

Brody opens his mouth and then closes it, head lowering in what Quinn can only presume is shame. Her suspicions are proven correct when Rachel wordlessly pulls out her cellphone and cheekily flashes them a picture of the very handsome Brody, posing quite prettily in one of Rachel’s dresses, puckering his cherry red made-up lips and batting his impeccable gorgeous false eyelashes. 

“Wow,” she laughs, and Brody sighs in defeat.

“Dude, where are your balls?!” Santana squeaks. 

“I get really drunk on Thursday nights,” he admits. 

It’s clear that Santana one step away from either going ‘All Lima Heights’ or slipping into a catatonic shock. "I think I need to get really drunk right now.” 

It’s a rare occasion where Quinn can understand Santana’s pain. “I’m on that,” she says, pressing reassuringly against Santana’s shoulder before she begins the tricky process of scooting out her chair. 

“I’ll go with you!” Brody says quickly, ready for a break from the embarrassment. 

“See? That’s my fucking girl,” Santana quips proudly, which Quinn supposes is just as good as thank you. The palming slap she receives on the ass, however, is less than complimentary. 

Quinn nearly trips on the chair. She whirls, ready to deliver an affronted glare but Santana only smiles and blows her a sweet little kiss. “Love you, Q.” 

What a bitchy brat. 

And yet she still grabs her purse and turns on her heel, ready to head in the general direction of the bar. “Which brings up Clause #1: Sex in the Loft,” she hears. 

“Holy shit – are you kidding me?” 

“There are drapes instead of doors,” Kurt snaps. “We do not kid about this.” 

“QUINN!” Santana cries after her desperately. “I need like… five shots.” 

*********

Yes, absolutely, there is a freedom that’s associated with tonight, and Quinn is fully aware that she has own rationalization about acting purely on will without worrying about the consequences. It’s the magic of New Year’s Eve. 

Despite that, Quinn has no wish for the resurgence of Weepy!Santana OR Angry!Quinn. 

Instead of ice cold Patron shots, she chooses to order Santana a Cadillac Margarita, and sticks with her usual glass of wine. But the bar is packed with thirsty drinkers, and the bartenders are overloaded. She and Brody can only wait patiently until they can be noticed. 

“So is she always that… spirited?” 

Rachel’s boyfriend is looking quizzically back at the table, where Quinn discovers Santana with the scroll now crumpled in her hand, and a lighter underneath it, shouting empathically in Spanish. Kurt and Rachel are squealing, lunging for their precious contract. 

“No,” she admits, but she can’t help the smile on her face, as Santana abandons the lighter and instead reaches for a tube of lipstick. “This is actually her subdued. I’m actually kind of amazed that she’s taking this so… calmly.” 

Santana smears a line of red across the parchment, shaking her head emphatically. Kurt nearly faints. “This is calm?!” 

Santana crosses out yet another line of the contract she doesn’t agree with, and Rachel’s jaw drops open. “Let’s just put it this way,” Quinn says, attempting to sound reasonable. “If freshman year Santana time traveled to now, and realized that she was about to cohabitate with Kurt Hummel and Rachel Berry? There wouldn’t need to be an intervention because she would have already checked herself into an asylum.”

Brody frowns. “Rachel and Kurt are cool though.” 

“Rachel and Kurt are very cool,” she agrees immediately. “Unfortunately, Santana and I didn’t always quite see it that way.” 

The bartender finally sees them, and Quinn places her order, alongside Brody who goes for the typical beer on tap for himself and two Cosmos for Rachel and Kurt. 

Quinn watches the bartender work, oddly fascinated with the easy way he reaches for the glasses, digs for ice and begins pouring. 

“So how long have you and Santana been together?” 

Her blood runs cold. Quinn’s head whips, pinning Brody with such a flabbergasted stare she seems him literally step back in surprise. 

“Santana and I aren’t together,” she says immediately. 

“Oh…” Brody licks his lips and shifts his gaze, clearly trying to look anywhere but right at her. 

“I’m not gay,” she feels the need to say rather emphatically. 

Brody blinks, and yes, it sounds ridiculous, because as far as Brody knows, she was nearly knuckle-deep in Santana just the night before, and there is an open door policy because Santana and Quinn can’t be trusted not to maul each other in the bathroom. And she has been attached at the hip with Santana since this morning, and yes, they are now standing at the bar getting drinks for their girls, and … 

Dammit. 

“Allright,” he says, and drums his hand on the bar, looking very thankful when his beer is being sloshed toward him. “That’s cool.” He nods mechanically. Quinn has no idea what to say. Brody takes a swig and apparently can’t quite stand the uncomfortable silence. “I mean I guess I just assumed-“ 

“-I’m confused.” Quinn blinks, and mentally groans, because that was a very unintentional word vomit. 

To his credit, Brody takes it in stride. “Fair enough.” 

Quinn stares, but Brody’s expression doesn’t change. He just simply regards her, and continues to drink his beer, like she’s just told him the latest superbowl score… or whatever it is guys talk about. 

At the table, Kurt has finally regained possession of his scroll, and is rerolling the stained parchment for safekeeping. He’s pointing a finger angrily at Santana, and Rachel apparently has given up altogether. Her head is literally flat against the table. 

Santana shrugs at them stonily. Rachel, without lifting her head, raises her hand, as if she’s waiting to be called on. 

Santana’s eyes shift and capture hers. She arches a brow, but the smirk she gives is quiet and secret, as if it’s reserved for Quinn and Quinn alone. 

Quinn’s insides flutter. She inhales unsteadily. “I just… things are happening really, really fast,” she admits quietly. Brody’s lips quirk, but he nods silently. Quinn’s fingers twist against each other as she leans against the bar. “And I’m not sure if they should happen, but I also don’t know…” Quinn hesitates. Brody isn’t Kurt, or Rachel. He isn’t going to bring up Brittany, or Quinn’s sexuality or she and Santana’s nasty habit of dissolving into slapfights. He doesn’t know any of that. 

Quinn doesn’t know why it makes it easier, but it does. “I just love her.” She once again spares a glance for Santana. Her gorgeous best friend has apparently gotten control of her temper; she has reached over the table and is attempting to fluff Kurt’s carefully made up pompadour. He’s batting her away like she’s a gnat. “Lately I’ve been realizing how much.” 

“Well yeah, I mean… that’s obvious.” 

The quiet introspection dissipates immediately. Quinn immediately turns her attention back to Brody. “What’s obvious?” 

Brody is in a middle of another gulp, and he puts up a finger, signaling for patience before he exhales in satisfaction and continues conversationally, “That you love her.” 

Holy fuck. “That’s obvious?” she squeaks. 

He frowns, head tilting as he considers it. “Pretty obvious,” he says easily, shrugging as if this isn’t absolutely devastating. 

And it is. It’s devastating. Quinn suddenly feels so exposed she may as well be naked. Her face flushes hot, and Quinn seeks shelter, turning into the bar and burying her head in her hands. “Shit.” 

“Hey, it’s cool.” A heavy, male hand lands on her shoulder, patting awkwardly. Brody’s odd attempt at comfort. 

“It’s cool?” she hisses, head lifting to glare at him. 

“Yeah!” he says, because he’s an idiot. “It’s cool. So you love her. What’s the big deal?” 

Her champagne is finally placed in front of her, along with Santana’s margarita. Quinn hastily hands over her card and with trembling hands, reaches for the glass thankfully. 

“You obviously do not know our history,” she mutters. 

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he muses. Quinn’s eyes narrows, but he only smiles his big dopey handsome smile, unaffected. “Maybe you need someone who doesn’t know you or your history to tell you that what you’re feeling is okay.” Quinn doesn’t quite know how to respond. That seems to be okay. Brody clinks his beer against her glass companionably, and continues softly, “Everyone gets confused Quinn. But love is love, and everyone deserves to be happy. And honestly?” he adds, straightening and puffing out that big burly chest of his. “It’s pretty obvious that that girl loves you right back.” 

It’s inappropriately wise and deep, considering the source. “What are you, some kinda hot stud Yoda?” 

“Me?” Brody’s breath flushes out between his pursed lips and shakes his head emphatically. “Nah. That was from a monologue I memorized for a workshop.” Quinn’s eyes close, and her shoulders shake in relieved mirth. “I mean I had to change a couple of the pronouns, but… it’s deep, right?” 

Quinn exhales, laughing in exasperation and resigned amusement. “Yeah, it’s deep.” 

“Cool,” he says, obviously proud of himself. He grabs hold of Rachel and Kurt’s cosmos, and then glances at her own two drinks. “Want me to get take that for you?” 

“I’m good, thanks.” 

He smiles, ready to turn when a hand smacks him hard on his shoulder. Quinn straightens, confused until she sees Santana come around him, placing herself neatly between herself and Brody. 

“That’ll do, Donkey. That’ll do.” 

Santana’s hand slips around her waist, and Quinn frowns as Santana pulls at her, nestling Quinn firmly into her side. She doesn’t even look at Quinn as she does it. Her brown eyes are firmly fixed on Brody. 

Quinn frowns, unsure what to make of it. Brody appears to be in the same boat. “What?” 

Santana lips purse. Her elbow rests against the bar, and she makes an actual show of inspecting Brody from head to toe before she huffs, unimpressed. “The only fun Rachel is a drunk Rachel,” she announces without preamble. “So how ‘bout you stop getting all up on my girl Quinn here, and get your girl some booze?” 

Holy crap, Santana’s jealous. 

Startled, Brody offers Quinn a wild glance before he immediately begins shaking his head. “I wasn’t-“ 

Santana’s brow rises in challenge. Her arm only tightens around Quinn, staking her claim. 

Quinn isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or pleased, but what she is sure of is that this is not a battle Brody is quite up for, especially considering the way the last battle of wills between Santana and Brody turned out. When he stares at her for obvious help, she only shakes her head in subtle warning. 

He takes the hint. “Right… I’m gonna take these to Rachel and Kurt.” 

“Yes, you do that,” Santana says, and keeps her gaze pinned on him until he physically turns from them. “Fiona and Lord Farquad are waiting.” 

Even as Brody leaves, Santana’s possessive hold doesn’t give. She merely rearranges herself to better reach the bar, taking her margarita with a happy smirk. “Fuck, that’s good.” 

Quinn regards her, watches in the lowlight of the bar how Santana seems suddenly innocent and sweet, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the tequila and offering her a happy squeeze. 

“He wasn’t hitting on me,” she says flatly. 

“Pfft,” Santana says, rolling her eyes at her presumed naivety. “Whatever. That dude is sketchy. I don’t like him.” 

Quinn reaches for her champagne and takes a resigned sip. “Please don’t be one of those man hating lesbians,” she sighs. 

Santana offers an indignant huff. “Offensive!” she snaps. “I don’t hate all men! Just the ones who are macking on my girl.”

There it is again. Quinn’s heart jumps in that agonizing, annoying way. It goes right into her throat, and Quinn’s eyes close for a brief moment, before she gains the strength to swallow it back into place. “You keep saying that,” she says carefully, easily. “You have no girls, Santana,” she reminds her flatly. 

She stares hard at Santana, but Santana keeps her gaze on her margarita. She raises the salted glass to her lips and drinks for a long time. “Who says I don’t?” Santana asks in a husky, uneven tone. 

Quinn’s lips press together. 

Santana waits, and suddenly her expression changes. “Fine,” she says after a moment, and removes her arm from Quinn. “God, Sorry.” 

“Santana-“ 

“I said Sorry! Shit.” 

She could start a fight now. She could outright accuse Santana of jealousy; accuse her of unfairly painting Brody in a bad light. She could resent the way Santana took hold of her and demand some sort of explanation. She could tell Santana that this isn’t fair, because they haven’t figured any of it out, and who says she has any right to want Quinn right now when she obviously still wants Brittany? 

She could do so many things. 

Their night will end in a fight, as usual. They will scream at each other and hurt each other and never resolve anything. 

They’ll probably slap each other again. Quinn will board that New Haven-bound train angry and resentful, and when David calls, she will probably answer, falling back into her bitterness and resigned apathy. 

It’s tempting even now, because at least THEN Quinn will understand how this will all turn out. 

“It’s just a fucking joke, Quinn,” Santana snaps, because Quinn still hasn’t said anything and it’s clearly affecting her. “Go flirt with as many plastic Ken blow up dolls as you want, okay?” 

“Oh will you get over yourself?!” Quinn angrily retorts, because she can’t help but get really pissed off. 

“You first,” Santana snarls, and Quinn winces in frustration, because here they go again. 

_“Love, love, love.”_ The piano has begun to play, and with it is a blend of familiar voices that catch Quinn’s attention. She glances up towards the stage, and discovers Brody, Rachel and Kurt crowded on the small stage. Brody’s smile is broad, and his smile is for her as he winks in their direction. _“Love, love, love.”_

 _“There's nothing you can do that can't be done,”_ Rachel begins with that gorgeous voice of hers. _“Nothing you can sing that can't be sung - Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game,”_ she leans back into her studly boyfriend. _“It's easy!”_

Quinn blinks, unsure what to think of it. 

Santana seems to agree. “Are they kidding?!” She huffs in disbelief.

 _“All you need is love_ ,” Kurt croons, arm slung around Rachel. “ _All you need is love_.” 

It’s… sweet. 

“No,” Quinn says, unexpected laughter coating her words. “I don’t think they are.” And God, it makes sense. 

Yes, Santana is a jealous, possessive bitch when she has absolutely no right to be, this is absolutely true. 

But she loves her. And it’s New Year’s Eve. 

And so Quinn exhales slowly, and places her champagne back on the bar. “Santana,” she whispers, just loud enough for only her friend to hear. Dark brown eyes stare curiously at her, somehow unsure and a little afraid, if Quinn really wants to look for that emotion. 

Quinn decides. 

She leans in, eyes fluttering closed as her forehead tips against Santana’s brow, soaking in the words as her friends sing. Santana exhales, nearly trembles against her, as Quinn just breathes her in. 

Quinn’s forehead tilts, just until her lips brush softly against Santana’s mouth. 

_“All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.”_

She will let Santana claim her, if only for this one night. 

But Quinn is selfish, and she has one caveat. 

In exchange, she’ll give in to temptation and claim her right back.


	9. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is a shorter chapter. I’m caught in about a million deadlines and this is probably the last chapter I’ll be able to write before I go out of the country next week. So please enjoy and hopefully I can be back with an extra long chapter next time to make up for it. Once again, thank you so much for all the comments and support. I appreciate you taking the time to take this journey with me. Only wish I had more time to deliver the goods!

There’s a part of Quinn that understands exactly what it is she’s doing. She’s studying to be an actor, and with that comes all sorts of introspection and discussion about motivation and actions. Quinn may not have always been beautiful, but she has always been smart. She doesn’t limit that study to her dramatic scenes in a classroom, but can’t help but extend it to her real life as well. 

Quinn knows she is drawing lines in the sand and then erasing them, only to draw them in again. She’s banking so much on the supposed ‘magic’ of New Year’s Eve, using what is honestly just another day as an excuse to move past her own boundaries and indulge herself. 

And yes, it’s not a good idea, and _yes_ , Quinn understands there is so much about this that’s unhealthy, but she has always been determined. And truthfully, even if there were no paltry excuses, Quinn knows that she would have regrets either way. 

At least with this choice, she gets to feel good for an evening. 

The NYADA crowd is eccentric and loud and all too theatric, but she’s a drama major and a Glee alum and there’s something about all this that feel refreshingly familiar and dangerously like home. 

Quinn spends the majority of this evening vastly amused, and yet it feels even deeper than that. She’s… happy.

The joy and anticipation that escalates through the crowded bar with every tick on the clock as midnight draws nearer is hard to ignore. Quinn feels the pleasant buzz of wine and laughter; it flows through her veins with a mellow sweetness. Her mouth aches from smiling, because a tipsy Kurt is absolutely hilarious and a tipsy Rachel is even more hilarious and more than a little clingy. And unlike Finn, who always seemed a little annoyed at Rachel’s cackling and the way Rachel seems to lose her volume button when she has more than one drink in her, Brody seems to be in that honeymoon stage of the budding relationship where everything his girlfriend does, even while drunk, is sexy and adorable. 

She’s not sure if that relationship has a prayer of going anywhere serious, but for right now it seems… right for Rachel. Her sometimes overly-dramatic (though really who is she to talk?) friend is finally living in the present, without an engagement ring on her finger or the pressure of worrying at every moment what next step will determine her future. She’s on the right path and for the moment, that’s good enough. 

It makes Quinn want to follow her example. 

Santana’s body is warm and solid against her. She’s loud and boisterous; her eyes sparkle with her own form of joy. And though they are here with her friends, it’s understood, more importantly, that Santana is here _with her_. 

It’s different than it used to be. Senior year, back when Santana was with Brittany and Quinn was, for the moment, at peace with who she had become and where she was going, she and Santana had reconnected. She remembered casual touches, sweet little smiles begotten from the nostalgia of it all. 

Now there is intention behind every caress; a bold declaration that states to everyone in this bar that they are more than friends. Quinn’s fingers thread lightly through Santana’s, idly caressing as they sit and watch Brody perform ‘Float On’ on that tiny stage. The lyrics are so happy-go-lucky and free they seem to define Brody completely, but that’s not what Quinn thinks about. 

Instead, she thinks about slender fingers and the tingles they produce and how they leave her a little breathless and a lot turned on. She thinks about the way Santana’s smaller, feminine form settles in against her and how it seems so natural for them to sit so intimately. It should feel strange, shouldn’t it? Quinn’s had boyfriends all her life; she knows what men feel like. She appreciates their broad shoulders and solid physique, and the way they smell differently than she does. She used to like being cradled, curled into bulky arms. She used to be fine with running fingers across big forearms with coarse hair and feeling blunt fingernails across her own delicate fingers. 

It made her feel safe.

This… doesn’t feel the same. And yet… 

It’s intoxicating. 

This is unique. It’s Quinn who does the cradling. It’s Quinn who curls her own arms around Santana’s feminine shoulders, who runs fingers over soft skin and shoulders bare except for that tiny strap. Who shivers as manicured fingernails scratch lightly against her smooth forearm in response. Santana’s scented hairspray and her perfume linger in her nostrils, because Quinn’s so close her chin brushes against Santana’s scalp, and every time she laughs, Quinn feels the vibration back against her own chest. Santana’s free hand, the one not currently tangled loosely with Quinn’s, once again palms her bare thigh, burning heat into her skin, intimately unaware. They whisper together; Santana’s lips brush against her cheek and then her ear every time she reaches back to say something meant for her ears only. 

If no one knew them, if they were total strangers, they would look at Quinn and Santana and the way they’re tangled up in each other, and they would think they were girlfriends. It’s secretly thrilling. 

And it’s funny. She holds Santana the way Sam and Finn used to hold her, years ago in an old choir room. God… she can’t imagine this ever happening in Glee Club. 

But it’s happening here in New York, and Quinn doesn’t know why it feels so SPECIAL to be the one doing the holding. 

Maybe it’s because Santana is actually letting her. Maybe it’s because for once this seems easy, and nothing with Santana has ever been easy. 

Fingers curl against her inner thigh, scratching lightly in such a way Quinn finds herself biting down on her lower lip and shifting in her seat. The way she does it causes Santana’s hand to fall further in between her legs. 

“What’s going on?” she hears. The fingers skim again, further under her skirt. Quinn sucks in her breath. Her head lifts sharply to discover Santana watching her carefully with dancing brown eyes. 

Kurt has long since abandoned them to go flirt with a group of boys across the room. Rachel is in that state of intoxication where she is blissfully unaware of anything but Brody leading the crowd through the rousing chorus of his classic pop tune. 

It gives them a sort of private bubble, even in this crowded bar. 

“What do you mean?” she asks, but her tone is low… coated in a way that makes it completely obvious how Santana’s touch is affecting her. 

That dangerous smirk widens. Long fingers slide further underneath, to the point where they’re now drawing light circles at the edge of her thong. “You’re zoning, and leaving me to have to deal with the horror of this ‘performance’ on my own.” 

A knuckle brushes up directly against her. 

Quinn’s teeth clamp down on her lower lip. Her fingers tighten against Santana’s; the flush of wetness that has now become stickily obvious to her makes it… difficult to concentrate. 

Her eyes widen with the shock of it, but Santana’s hooded look is unrepentant. “Look at the stage, Q. It’s gross.” 

Quinn’s wonders how she can be aware of anything now, not with the way that single digit teasingly skims across the fabric of her thong, pressing in ever so lightly. Still, she somehow manages to obey. 

On stage, Brody has been replaced by Kurt and a group of NYADA dorks that have launched quite readily into a piano performance of ‘I Was Made For Loving You’. 

“Oh God,” she half-whispers, unsure if she can even trust her voice. “… Is he really singing KISS?” 

“It’s like Gay KidzBop,” Santana says airly, noses against her cheek until she reaches her ear. Quietly, for Quinn only, she whispers, “I can smell how wet you are for me.” 

“Fuck.” It’s an unfortunate outburst, but by now the bar is rowdy and loud, and her moan is drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Kurt is doing this weird thrust-shimmy combination, and it’s nearly horrific enough to give her back SOME measure of control. 

But all Santana betrays is an uneven chuckle, before that knuckle retreats, giving her just a bit of relief before the palm spreads wide and squeezes her thigh hard. 

It’s all she can do to keep from bucking her hips. 

“Santana!” she hisses. Rachel woops hard and loud, slamming hard down on the rickety table, nearly overturning their drinks. 

“DO THE CHANT!” she shrieks, and gives them both a wild, glassy eyed grin. Flushed and breathless, Quinn can only manage a shaky smile back. That seems to be good enough for Rachel, because she shouts, “I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.” 

“You know what else you love?” Santana remarks, infuriatingly calm against her. “Vodka.” 

“YES!” Rachel agrees vehemently. “Vodka is AMAZING.” Two fingers press in against her now, directly over her clit, smoothing deliberately on her. “Quinn, are you okay?” Rachel asks, nose scrunching and eyes narrowing. “You look really flushed!” 

“The bar is really hot,” is what she manages, and it’s a terribly lame excuse, but Rachel’s also drunk so… 

“You do look flushed, Quinn,” Santana says, leaning back to inspect her face with mock concern. “Are you okay?” Quinn lips press together. Her legs tremble and she’s sure she’s gripping Santana’s fingers so tightly that it must hurt. Still, Santana’s fingers dart back and skim teasingly against the lining of her underwear. “Because I’m sure Rachel’s Plastic Ken Doll will be happy to go get you some water.” 

Quinn grits her teeth and breathes hard out of her nose, glaring hard at the gorgeous woman who is so easily dismantling her with fingers against her soaked, barely clothed sex. 

God, the thong was such a horrible idea. 

“Yes!” Rachel squeals, and swivels in her chair, snapping her fingers for Brody. “Brody! Water! Water for everyone!” 

Rachel is distracted. Santana chooses that exact moment to dig her fingers underneath the fabric of the thong. Quinn’s eyes roll back and she gasps, and it’s just enough for Santana to plant her mouth against hers, and slide her tongue against her lips at the same time as her fingers mimic the action, lower down. 

Her outburst is garbled. The world falls away, and Quinn’s awareness falls away. Her mind is splintered, and every nerve is on fire, because Santana tongue is rubbing insistently against her own and her fingers slip and slide through her wetness, unable to find purchase because of all the moisture. 

Santana’s moan vibrates against her mouth; she breathes hard through her nose and licks against Quinn’s teeth, fingers bold and searching, cupping against her and GOD-

The table scrapes forward, it’s legs knocking on her knees, just as a cold liquid splashes on the hand that’s gripping the edge of it. 

Quinn’s eyes open dizzily, struggling to focus as her mouth rips away from Santana and she processes a cup of water has been placed on her side of the table. Brody’s smile shows all his teeth. He’s settling into his chair, cheeks ruddy and flushed, beside Rachel who stares with an open-mouthed expression. Quinn has no ability to discern whether she’s annoyed, flabbergasted, or turned on.

Santana’s forearm flexes; trips a nail directly up her slit and she doesn’t fucking care. 

“There’s your water,” Rachel says in a tone that seems much less carefree or happy as it was a moment ago. Deprived of her mouth, Santana’s lips now suckle and nip a path along Quinn’s jaw, journey south until she’s placing wet, lewd kisses against the sensitive column of her throat.

She’s overwhelmed. Quinn’s heart pounds and her body is heated. Blood rushes in her ears and every nerve is tingling, ready to explode. Her brain, usually so aware and careful, is mellowed with liquor and lit on fire by Santana’s touch, and it begs her to open her legs wide, give Santana the room she needs to dip down further- 

“Quinn.” 

Rachel. Right. “Thanks,” she manages, doing her best to smile politely. The water actually looks amazing. Quinn is suddenly really, really parched and she wishes she trusted herself to be able to pick up that delicious looking cup and drink from it without tipping it all over herself with her failing motor functions. 

“Santana,” Rachel snaps, but Santana is completely one note and ignores her, lifting her head and untangling her fingers from Quinn’s to take hold of her jaw and turn her mouth back into her own. 

“Wow.” 

“Santana, you’re mauling her- Quinn – GUYS.” 

Santana’s taste features the salty sweat of her skin mingled with lingering remnants of salt and tequila. Quinn loves it. She captures Santana’s bottom lip with her teeth, groaning because she’s practically dripping now, and Santana can feel all of it. 

There’s a blast of heat and a sudden roar of applause, so much louder than before. 

“SANTANA,” Rachel says again, only to be followed with a much louder-

“SANTANA LOPEZ.” Kurt. A very loud Kurt. Quinn opens her eyes. 

It’s not just Brody and Rachel staring at them now. It’s the entire bar, including Kurt, who is holding a microphone to his mouth, staring at them with wide, amused eyes. 

The crowd is clapping at whistling at THEM. At their display. 

And Santana is fingering her under the table. 

Santana is practically FUCKING her under this table. 

Shit. 

“Santana,” she hisses, and slaps her hand from the table to between her legs, stilling Santana’s movement and forcing her attention off of her. 

“Finally!” Kurt laughs, loud and obnoxious because of the damn microphone.

“What the hell is going on?” Santana snaps, voice so thick with arousal Quinn’s jaw clamps in reaction. 

Rachel doesn’t respond. Her eyes are instead fixed on the edge of the table, the way Quinn’s hand disappears beneath it… the way Santana’s does the same. 

“We’ve been calling you,” Brody answers instead, laughing and shaking his head. “It’s your turn to sing!” 

“What?” Santana asks dumbly. Though she stays close, her fingers slip from underneath Quinn’s thong, coating her inner thigh with her own wetness. Quinn struggles not to grimace. Rachel notices the expression with a frown. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

Quinn’s heart is beating frantically. She swallows hard and reaches with shaking hands as subtly as she can for the tattered cocktail napkin that rests underneath her water. 

Rachel’s eyes widen.

“It’s roommate initiation time!” Kurt announces to the crowd, MC-like. “Ladies and gents, tonight is a special night for many reasons, but a BIG one is that as of tonight, Rachel and I may have a new roommate! Please welcome New York’s newest hellraiser and obvious lady lover, Santana Lopez!” 

There’s thunderous applause. Santana’s pupils are dilated, her eyes are hooded and dark, and she still looks winded. She licks her swollen lips and blinks, trying to make sense of the situation. Quinn’s flushed, dizzy emotion has not gone away, but it feels almost like a trip that’s gone very bad. 

“Fucking Kurt,” Santana whispers. 

She reaches underneath to stuff the napkin against Santana’s hand and feels her own wetness in the process. “Go,” she whispers hoarsely, because Santana looks stuck, and they have no choice. 

The crowd is still applauding, getting louder by the second, and so Santana pulls away from her, the napkin crumbled in and around her fingertips as she smiles mutely at Quinn and weaves around Brody and Rachel to head for the stage. 

*********

The crowd is quiet. They’re transfixed on Santana, who whispers quietly to the piano player and runs fingers through her mussed hair. 

Quinn needs to go to the bathroom. Now. 

She can’t move. 

Rachel’s dark eyes have fixated on her. She seems to be the only person who is not staring at the dark-haired vixen in the red dress. 

Quinn doesn’t want to know what she is thinking. 

Every bit of energy she has is focused on trying desperately not to panic, to calm her flushed body down, to keep herself from moaning in actual physical pain because though her mind has caught up, her groin has not quite gotten over the interruption and she’s swollen and wet and it HURTS. 

“Well, thank you Lady Hummel,” she hears Santana say, and lifts her eyes to discover Santana settling on a stool. “For the interruption and the invitation.” 

The crowd laughs. Heads turn at her, like she’s in on the joke. Quinn forces a smile. 

“I’mma mellow this place down a bit,” Santana says, and the piano man starts playing a tinkering of notes that Santana immediately begins to hum to. 

_“I may not always love you…”_ The second Santana begins to sing, the room silences. _“But long as there are stars above you… You never need to doubt it… I'll make you so sure about it…”_

It’s _God Only Knows_. Quinn recognizes the version, a cover arrangement by Joss Stone that is tailor made of Santana’s husky lower register. 

Quinn’s racing heart skips. Her mouth opens in a sweet exhalation, because Santana is beautiful. She captures the room with her sheer presence, that dark-haired devil with the voice of an angel. 

Long lashes flutter as Santana carries those notes. Emotion resonates with every lyric, because Santana means those words… it’s written all over her face as she lifts sparkling eyes to the room and twists her hands in front of her, physically reaching for those perfect notes. 

_“If you should ever leave me… Though life would still go on believe me…”_

Santana is raw… she doesn’t carry Rachel’s perfect pitch or Kurt’s flamboyant showmanship. She’s naked on that stage. It’s just the girl and the song and those simple, quiet lyrics. 

_“…The world could show nothing to me… So what good would living do me…”_

It’s devastating, but Santana is bleeding out her soul, and the audience can see it. This is why Santana belongs in New York, belongs on any stage at all. She has made that tiny stage her home, and the patrons, NYADA students who all carry talent like most people carry wallets, are transfixed, spellbound in the same way Quinn is. 

_”God only knows what I’d be without you.”_

No… not the same way. 

Quinn’s eyes sting with tears, and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her chest rises and falls as she stares helplessly at Santana. 

It’s not the same way at all. 

They’re falling in love with a star. 

Quinn is already in love. Helplessly, desperately in love with a woman and a naked heart who is bleeding words for a long lost love that could never be her. 

A hand presses down on her palm. Quinn’s glistening eyes open, as Rachel takes hold of her hand and with a quiet, somber expression, tugs and lifts away from her seat. 

Once again, Quinn takes her strength from Rachel. 

She allows Rachel to pull her to the back of the bar; towards the bathroom. 

Santana’s lost in her song. In those words. 

Quinn knows she doesn’t see them leave. 

 

*********


	10. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 3

It’s an absolute miracle that the bathroom is empty. Callbacks is a small bar and so it comes with an even smaller ladies room. For some odd reason, the fates have decided to finally be kind. As Rachel leads Quinn through the door and into the surprisingly well kept toilet room, with its two regular and one handicapped stalls, there is only one woman drying her hands. She flashes them both a small smile before scurrying around them and towards the exit.

As she drifts through the open doorway, Santana’s haunting melody floats in. Quinn swallows hard and decides it must not be fate so much as the magnetism of Santana’s performance that keeps the bathroom empty and the Callbacks audience transfixed.

She ducks her head and heads into a stall, losing her strength the moment she sits down. 

Outside, she hears Rachel’s quiet shuffles, ready and waiting for the moment that Quinn emerges after … collecting herself. 

It makes her want to stay in this stupid toilet stall for as long as she can. 

_“It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down the rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--...”_

It’s kinda funny, the way the quote comes without prompting, popping into her head like a misguided narrator. 

Quinn takes a breath to steel her insides before matter-of-factly reaching for the cheap toilet paper, taking more than she needs as she lifts herself on shaky legs and cleans herself. 

It’s privately mortifying, the way that tissue slides so easily through the wetness, nearly skidding against her most intimate parts. 

“Quinn…” 

She sucks in a trembling breath, glancing up sharply at the closed stall. Through the slight opening between the door and the stall, she catches a glimpse of Rachel, who leans her hip against the sink and awkwardly checks her make up in the mirror. 

“I’ll be right out,” she calls out with a hoarse voice. 

The tears that threatened to spill over so easily have receded at least, and for that she’s grateful. Away from the melodic haunt of Santana’s voice, Quinn’s aching heart seems to manage. 

She finishes, flushing the toilet and straightening her posture as she heads out of the stall and towards the sink. She doesn’t speak as she starts methodically washing her hands, but she can’t help but be aware of the way Rachel is staring. 

She glances up and catches the worried reflection in the mirror. 

“Don’t,” she says immediately, the moment Rachel’s mouth starts to open. 

Rachel blinks. She takes a moment, and then her mouth shuts and her arms cross. “Don’t what?” 

The alcohol that rushes through her has lost its buzz, but her tendency to anger licks at her subconscious. 

“Don’t say anything,” Quinn snaps, because she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need Rachel following her and getting her alone and speaking to every single doubt festering in her head, giving those thoughts life and power. 

But Rachel surprises her. A strong chin comes up and Rachel merely comes up beside her and turns on the tap to the sink beside her, joining her in washing her hands. “What is there exactly to say?” 

Quinn’s actions momentarily stall. Rachel continues washing her hands, pressing the tab for the soap and rubbing it over here palms. “Quinn, honestly? I’m kinda at a loss for words.” Rachel’s eyes lift up and catch Quinn’s in the reflection in the mirror. “Well I’m still a little drunk,” she admits, in a way that would be funny in any other situation, “And one of my friends was literally actually fingering one of my other friends at a table less than a foot away from me,” she explains, and Quinn feels the heat immediately rise on her cheeks, making her flush horribly. “So … my mind is a little blown right now.” 

Yeah… 

Quinn looks up and regards herself – this Alice in the mirror. “Well, that makes two of us.” 

She meant to keep Rachel’s light tone, to match it with her own, because what can she honestly say in response? She doesn’t succeed. Rachel’s eyes grow somber, and she regards her in that careful way that tells Quinn she has revealed too much. 

The door opens suddenly, bringing with it a rousing burst of applause that tells Quinn immediately that Santana has finished her song. The woman who has come in hesitates, looking at them and the stalls. 

“We’re not waiting,” Quinn says, and nods in their direction. The girl smiles gratefully and immediately locks herself in the nearest. 

It’s awkward, listening to a stranger pee. 

Rachel sidles in closer, until she’s pressed in gently to Quinn’s side. “You don’t know that she was singing that song to Brittany, Quinn.” She’s speaking low and quiet for Quinn’s benefit, but it’s a ridiculous statement and Quinn finds herself scoffing with irritation. 

“Who was she singing it to?” she asks, shooting Rachel an exasperated look. “Me?” 

Rachel stares at her. “Sometimes a song is just a song.” 

“Is a song ever _just_ a song to you, Rachel?”

It’s a valid point, and it shuts Rachel up, because Rachel understands. Rachel sang sonnets and ballads every week to Finn, pouring her soul out to him on a weekly, if not daily, basis. 

The girl emerges, and Rachel and Quinn shift, allowing her to wash her hands. She looks at them both and offers another awkward smile. “Happy New Year!” 

They respond in kind, and she leaves after a moment of quick primping, an action so uncomplicated Quinn envies her. 

“Look, this is none of my business,” Rachel says, breaking into the quiet after the stranger’s exit. “But Quinn… you’re falling in love with her.” Quinn’s posture stiffens. She presses her lips together, and it’s all she can do to keep from choking at the way her heart jumps into her throat. “And I think you know that.” 

Rachel’s ventured into her own form of resignation, like this is inevitable. Somehow, it makes Quinn smile – a painful twerk of her lips that feels almost like a relief. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?”

“What?” 

“Growing up,” she answers, and thinks of Alice and the rabbit hole, and Brittany and Santana, with their linked pinkies and unicorn hats. She thinks of Beth; her one perfect thing. “You think falling in love is this magical thing. You would love them. They would love you. Like a Disney movie,” she whispers, and the image returns of Brittany and her Disney DVDs, happily hopping on the couch and bouncing on Santana’s lap as she forces Quinn to choose. “A happy ending. A fairy tale. No one ever warned any of us it would be this terrifying.” 

The statement dies in the thickness of the air that stays stagnant in the bathroom. Rachel absorbs that thought quietly, until she shifts beside Quinn and shrugs. “Well maybe that’s the point.” When Quinn lifts her head to eye her quizzically, Rachel adds, “If it wasn’t so terrifying, then what would be the point in feeling it?” 

Quinn wishes she knew. It’s not until a hand brushes a ragged bit of paper towel against her cheek that she realizes that she has begun to tear up. 

Rachel moves in closer, and it’s like an echo of junior prom, the way she tenderly smiles and presses that paper to absorb the moisture on Quinn’s cheek. “You deserve happiness, Quinn.” 

The door pushes open once again, but it is no stranger that catches the intimate moment. 

Santana, pupils dilated and hair mussed, stares at them both, eyes moving from Quinn to Rachel, to the way they are pressed so tightly together. 

“What the hell is this?” 

It’s hard at first, to process what exactly Santana is reacting to. They’re pressed together so intimately… and Rachel understands that implication, because she backs up just a bit, eyes widening as she does so. Quinn has no strength to move. She is still so fragile, tender in the way only Rachel has really ever seen, and there isn’t time for the walls to come back up. Her eyes are still teary, her mouth still trembles and maybe that’s all Santana sees, because she stares wildly between them before suddenly launching forward like an attacking cat. 

“What the fuck did you do to her, Berry?” 

As Santana shoves herself in between them, nearly flattening Rachel against the wall with the force and playing a palm flat against her moist cheek, Quinn dizzily realizes that Santana isn’t JEALOUS of the intimate moment… she’s furious on her own behalf. 

“What did I do to her?!” Rachel asks pointedly. She sounds incredulous. 

Dark eyes seek her own with something that looks like panic. Santana’s mouth is pursed, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip a little sweaty, probably from the glaring lights of the stage. Dazed from her emotion and the buzz from the alcohol that never quite went away, Quinn almost leans forward to tongue at the droplets. 

“Yes, Idiot, what the hell did you do to her?!” Santana snaps. “Five minutes ago she was smiling and happy and now she’s in this dingy crap room crying!” 

“Five minutes ago you had your fingers in her-“ 

“Rachel!” she hisses, because even SHE knows where that sentence is going, and there’s no need to name what was, apparently, all too obvious to everyone seated at that table. 

But she has to commend Rachel: it’s enough to shut Santana up. The other woman absorbs the statement, looking actually a little stupid for a second before her brain catches up and she makes the connection. 

Rachel’s chin lifts defiantly when Santana’s jaw literally drops. 

Santana’s eyes lock with Quinn’s, but her reaction is surprising. Well, maybe it isn’t, because Santana is shameless. “Then maybe the Green Fairy should have let me finish.” 

Rachel’s eyes nearly roll out of her head. Quinn, exhausted and somehow unable to truly think with the way Santana’s hand lingers on her distractedly, can only manage a quiet, teary guffaw. 

Really, all she can do is laugh. 

Santana takes notice. Her touch becomes familiarly possessive as she slides her hand around Quinn’s waist before reaching for a clean and dry hand towel. “Seriously, Rachel. What did you say?!“ 

That accusing tone is still there, like RACHEL is to blame for this, and really, how on earth is Santana somehow both so intelligent and crushingly dense at the exact same time?!

It’s time she interjected herself into the conversation. “Santana, Rachel didn’t do anything to me other than be a friend.” 

Once again, Santana stares at her searchingly, trying to unlock a puzzle of which there is no solution. “I’m your friend too, Quinn,” she says, so quietly it smacks of ridiculous insecurity. 

The tiny moment of vulnerability does little to ease Quinn’s aching heart, and she grasps for the anger that keeps her standing. “Well you were otherwise occupied, weren’t you?” 

“Not by choice!” 

“I’m going to go back outside.” In the brief moment since she has last spoken, Rachel has actually managed to almost reach the door. It’s disconcerting, how easily Quinn lost track of her. Her eyes go soft in unspoken apology to Rachel, but her friend just flashes her a surprisingly tender smile back. “I’ve been asked to sing Auld Lang Syne and I need to get a lemon tea to loosen up my vocal chords to do it justice. My NYADA peers can be my harshest critics so I really need to be on top of my game.” As she regards them, the way Santana still holds her, the way Quinn has pressed herself into Santana’s side, her smile softens. “Take care of her, Santana.” 

God, the way Rachel delivers that, Quinn can actually FEEL herself being transported into a forties black and white war flick dripping with gravitas and dramatics and Rachel selflessly giving her away at the altar to a mustache-twirling villain named Santiago. 

She loves Rachel, but it takes actual effort to not roll her eyes. 

“Rachel-“ Santana begins. 

Rachel expels a distinctly annoyed sigh as she whirls and stares down their mutual friend. “What, Santana?” 

Santana doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, it’s to offer an awkwardly gentle, “Good luck following that act.” 

The line could be cutting but instead it comes off affectionate. This is Santana attempting to apologize for jumping to conclusions by offering to return to their normal, weirdly competitive friendship. 

At the very least, that’s how Rachel seems to take it. “Please,” she huffs. “Like there’s any competition. There was only one star of Glee Club, and you’re looking at her. Prepare to get schooled, Santana Lopez.” 

Santana arches a brow. “Looking forward to it, Fiona.” Their eyes meet, and some kind of understanding is met, before Rachel flounces out of the bathroom. The pep is back in her step, and it’s nice to see. 

But Rachel’s exit leaves her alone with Santana, and though Santana is focused on watching Rachel leave, Quinn discovers she has no such urge. It’s nice that Santana isn’t looking at her. It gives Quinn freedom to linger on the perfect profile of the oddly subdued face. 

The party has resumed outside, undeterred by Santana’s attempts to ‘slow it down’. Even through the closed door, the sounds of the bar float in easily. She hears laughter and the clink of glasses, the beat of the music that is meant to infect the party goers with euphoria. 

Santana breathes in noisily, but the breath is caught in her throat when she shifts back and notices Quinn’s eyes on her. “What?” Santana asks when she catches her staring. 

Quinn remembers the way Santana looked on that stage, effortlessly captivating and gorgeous. “You sounded amazing up there, Santana,” she admits. 

And yet, somehow, it’s the wrong thing to say. Santana’s apprehensive expression grows cold. “How would you know? You didn’t even hear it.”

She noticed then… that Quinn was gone. 

“I heard enough,” she says thickly, eyes dropping to the tile. 

There is a pregnant pause. “Did you?” 

Her heart seizes in her chest. “Santana-“ she begins, her voice thick and weary. 

“I got a hotel room.” 

The statement strikes her literally stupid. “What?” is all she manages, the stubby word blurted out from her throat in a way that sounds more like a squawk than anything else. 

“I just… we don’t have to do anything, okay?” Santana stammers, but already, Quinn’s head is swimming with images, positions… mouths- “But I swear to God if Kurt interrupts me one more time when I’m all up on you I’m going kill him and something tells me their idiotic roommate contract doesn’t include a homicide clause.” 

She’s serious. Yes, she’s serious because that IS a hotel key card she has just pulled out from her cleavage, laminated with a very professional looking logo and stylish script that spells ‘EVENTI’. 

Whatever THIS is…Santana apparently wants it badly enough to go through the trouble of booking a hotel room. In advance. 

The thought makes her dizzy. She reaches blindly behind her for support from the porcelain sink. “Santana…” 

She’s not sure if she’s hesitant or just stuck in disbelief, but looking at Santana doesn’t help at all. 

Maybe the nerves are catching. The keycard in Santana’s hand fumbles, and she actually scrambles to try and catch it, clutching it against her chest like she just dropped a baby. 

It’s so oddly vulnerable, so magnetically appealing. 

“Look, it’s New Year’s Eve,” her friend huffs after a moment, her eyes deliberately on the dirty tile. “And all I have to show for it is a contract that Rachel and Kurt want me to sign in blood.” 

That… is a stretch. “Blood.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? It’s in fucking blood.” Santana says sharply, and continues to nervously fondle her slippery keycard. Slippery because of… sweaty nervous fingers? “And I’ve got one more night of freedom before I’m subjected… that full time.”

Quinn’s frame trembles. Though she’s never been as fluent in ‘Santana’ as she now admits she wishes she could have been, there are moments where she looks into those deep dark eyes and knows exactly what Santana is feeling. They are cut from the same mold, bitches on top crumpled in on themselves, and sometimes Quinn does wonder if that’s why there is so much… love here. 

“So I take it that means you’ve decided you’re going to stay,” she manages. Santana’s lips press together silently. It’s stupid because she’s known all along that this is the best thing for Santana. Logically, Santana can’t hide in her tiny little dorm room forever. She has to make a choice – she has to choose New York. She has to choose herself. 

But God… there’s a sadness now… an emptiness that tells her that Rachel and Brody are completely right and she’s infected herself and she’s IN LOVE with her. She’s IN LOVE with Santana, and it’s so different than being cut from the same mold and just loving her. 

It’s so, so different. 

“Quinn.” Quinn’s watery eyes lift, but just as Santana makes to continue whatever it is she’s going to say, a trio of girls laughingly stumble into the bathroom, nearly shoving Santana off her feet. 

“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you, Plastics?!” 

“I’m so sorry!” one of them says, clearly drunk and apologetic. She immediately blinks at who she nearly ran over. “Oh my God, you are the gorgeous girl that sang that song! You were amazing!” 

“Thanks,” Santana answers, in a distracted, choked voice that apparently only Quinn can hear. “But if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something with my girl here-“ 

Quinn swallows, sees those eyes now all directed at her. “Oh my GOD, yes!” one of them laughs, and gives them a thumbs up that looks actually creepy when paired with her lewd smile. “The performance before the performance!” 

“That was so hot!” another one chirps and it’s infuriating how much she wants to kill them. “Seriously, you’re like the hottest lesbians here!” 

“Seriously?” she sputters, and apparently that’s enough. Santana reaches forward and grabs hold of Quinn’s wrist, yanking to pull her through the scattering trio and out into the tiny hallway where the bathrooms are located. 

It’s a change of scenery, at least. Quinn finds she is grateful for the absence of mirrors. With flaming cheeks, she presses back against the wall and tells herself to suck in a deep breath. 

“Quinn.” 

She sucks in air through her teeth, feeling her chest rise as her lungs expand with air. “What?” she asks and realizes that Santana has yet to actually let her go.

The fingers on her wrist tighten their grip, and she is tugged by Santana, manipulated gently until they’re chest to chest, shoulders pressed against the wall in that tiny hallway. “Will you just LOOK at me for like, a second?” 

She doesn’t want to. She does anyway. 

She sees a vulnerable brunette with moist brown eyes that look so small and insecure, and she’s staring at her with this… face… and these eyes… and GOD why was it ever a good idea to stare at Santana like this when she’s impaired by liquor? 

Her lips are on Santana’s before she can quite stop herself. It rips a moan from her throat that would be embarrassing in any other situation, but somehow she can’t bring herself to care, not when Santana’s fingers tangle in her hair, head tilting to match her vibrant enthusiasm. 

She gasps at the taste of her, lids fluttering as Santana breaks the kiss with a deep breath, head titled against her temple. “Quinn, you’re my homegirl,” she whispers, lips ghosting against her own. “And there’s a lot about this shitty year that I would want to take back, but you know what I realized this morning?” 

Quinn simultaneously both cares and doesn’t. She closes the distance once again, burying her mouth against Santana’s, receiving a deep kiss in return before Santana once again breaks away. “Quinn just let me fucking say it.” 

She shakes her head desperately. She can’t. She won’t. There’s a ticking clock above them, a man with a timer who tells her quite adamantly that whatever she has with her best friend – it’s borrowed. It’s part-time. It’s only one more night, and she doesn’t want to hear what Santana has to say because then it’ll be real and there will be CONSEQUENCES and what’s worse? What’s worse than falling in love with this unattainable, immovable force of nature? 

And God, Santana just proves her point, because even though Quinn desperately wants her to shut up, fingers that actually SMELL LIKE HER touch Quinn’s face delicately and Santana whispers, “The one part I wouldn’t take back is that I’m here, right now, with you.” 

It’s not fair. It’s NOT FAIR because how can she NOT fall in love? 

Her eyes flutter closed, miserable in her own doubt. She feels the touch of Santana’s fingers, the way they so gently press in against her cheek, flit against her skin with such careful affection it’s hard to believe that it’s this hand that so often strikes against her face in anger. 

The tears don’t seem to stop, but it’s almost okay, because Santana’s there to wipe each one away. 

Her head tilts, until she’s pressed her lips to Santana’s shoulder, wrapped her arms around the slim feminine waist. They’re hugging - it’s so chaste compared to what they were doing before, and yet Santana holds her, keeps her steady in that little hallway. 

Quinn feels the world drop away. A sharp corner against Santana’s cleavage brings her back to it. 

Her heart thuds tellingly. “When did you even have time to run out and book a hotel room?” Her words are shaky, barely given breath against the bare skin of Santana’s shoulder. 

“Don’t apply logic to Lopez,” she hears a trembling voice respond and her body shakes with weak laughter. 

It’s kind of ridiculous that it’s at this exact moment that some nerd is now bouncing in front of the stage and trying to get the crowd to shout the chorus as he raps the lamest piano-bar recital of Pitbull’s ‘Hotel Room Service’ she’s ever heard. He’s got a British accent, which seems to make it even MORE ridiculous.

What’s even worse is that the NYADA crowd is actually really into it. 

She lifts her head and offers Santana a watery smile. Santana’s brow quirks adorably. “So you in?” 

Because that is exactly how Santana would proposition her for New Year’s sex. 

Quinn can’t help but love her for it. Her head tilts and she presses one more lingering kiss against Santana’s seductive mouth. “Yeah,” she says, the moment she pulls back. “I’m in.” 

****

“WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL! HOLIDAY INN! WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL HOLIDAY INN!” 

Through the crowd, Quinn catches a glimpse of Rachel as she stands with Brody and Kurt. Her friend is giggling and laughing, shouting alongside the rest of the crowd as the British nerd on stage leads them through the song. Rachel stands with Brody and Kurt, giggling and laughing and shouting alongside the rest of the NYADA. It’s so crazy hyped with the excited New Year energy that Quinn actually feels pressed in because of it. She clasps Santana’s hand and lets her weave through the crowd, guiding them through the madness and toward the exit. 

Santana pauses, searching for a way past the necking couple blocking their way. Quinn uses the opportunity to look toward her friends one more time. 

By some miracle, she catches Rachel’s eye. Rachel looks, notes the way their hands are clasped, notes the LOOK in Quinn’s eyes. 

Quinn knows she doesn’t have to tell her they won’t be there to see her sing. 

But Rachel understands. All she does is smile and mouth a ‘Happy New Year’ to her. 

Though her chest is tight, her heart soars. Quinn is tugged into moving forward by Santana, but she makes a point to glance back and wave her own good-bye to Rachel. 

Rachel disappears into the crowd. All Quinn can do is look forward with Santana. 

****

The Eventi hotel is located in Chelsea. It’s a boutique hotel that smacks of newness. Quinn’s fingers, tangled loosely with Santana’s, twitch as her steps falter, taking in the state of it. Santana’s heels clack against the speckled blood-red marble under their feet. When they pass the check in area, she notices the expensive wooden trim, topped with the cut marble trim. Men and women in pristine black uniforms offer them polite and friendly smiles, wishing them a Happy New Year. 

Quinn has never considered herself wordly, but it’s disconcerting how awed she feels by this. This isn’t New Haven or a quaint B&B with animal rugs. This is pure New York, and it makes sense that Santana looks so at home here, moving past the crowded bar towards the swanky elevators. 

A handsome guy, dark-haired and tall and exactly Quinn’s usual type, catches their attention and offers up his martini in greeting. “Evening ladies,” he calls out. “Can I buy you a drink?” 

Santana stiffens beside her, and Quinn briefly wonders if it feels the same for Santana – to have her and not have her at the same time… to know that at any time there’s a professor at Yale who will be more than happy to stick a dick in her at the first opportunity. 

“Listen, ass-“ she hears, but doesn’t bother to wait for the rest. 

She cuts her off by pulling the other woman in closer, curling her arm around Santana’s waist and shaking her head in return. “No thanks,” she says firmly. “We’re going to have a New Year’s Celebration of our own.” 

It’s a testament to the magic of this night that Quinn feels nothing but pride at the way he looks between her and Santana, and puts it together. “Nice!” he says, and gets jostled by his friends as he sloshes his martini. “Happy New Year’s, hot lesbians!” 

Happy New Year, indeed. 

 

****

In in a pristine hallway, off the 23rd floor, Santana Lopez inserts her keycard into room 2307. Quinn watches, her heart in a precarious place, as the lock clicks and the light flashes green, and then a slender wrists grabs hold of the handle and twists. 

Santana wordlessly pushes into the dark hotel room. 

Immediately that stupid song begins to blare in her mind, but the chorus quickly shuts off the second Santana flips on the lights. 

It’s not a big room – Santana obviously still has her mother’s money, but Quinn has been impressed to know she hasn’t been frivolous with it. This is a boutique hotel, so the space in this room isn’t large, but the room is adequately furnished with antique looking furniture and a King-sized bed endowed with a pure white comforter and downy fluffy pillows. 

Quinn’s wedges sink into the carpet as she glances up and notices with a fierce blush that there is a mirror facing the bed, full-length and nearly shameless with its placement. 

“What do you think?” 

Quinn blinks, finds herself laughing hesitantly as she notices Santana’s waiting expression – hopeful and unsure... like a kid on prom night.

It’s ridiculously adorable. Quinn continues moving until she discovers the marble-tiled bathroom, and notices with surprise that it’s as large as the bedroom. It has a spa-sized tub clearly built for two and one of those rain showers with dual heads. 

This is a hotel room that was handmade for late nights and sex marathons. 

Quinn’s nose wrinkles when she notices the zebra trim on the complimentary robes. 

“How did you find this place?” she breathes when Santana follows her. She leans against the doorway, content it seems, to just let Quinn explore. 

“What did I say about me and Logic?” Santana’s brow is arched, but the cockiness quickly fades at the look from Quinn. She crosses her arms and huffs, “I googled for it when you were out with Berry, what do you think?” 

… Well. 

Quinn feels her chest flutter – the arousal that simmers underneath her skin bubbles in her blood. “You that hard up to get laid, Lopez?” she teases, but her voice is husky. 

Santana’s eyes lock with her own. Quinn notices the visible way her throat bobs, and it gives her an amazing feeling. 

She feels suddenly sexy. 

“This is about me not committing a hummellcide,” Santana says, as evenly as she can. “Aren’t you anti-murder?” 

Quinn swivels on her heels and glances at the large duel sinks, sturdy and stylish, with tiny name brand bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion. “I’m anti-having to deal with him and his weird bathroom issues.” 

She glances up to discover Santana smiling. “Come on,” Santana says after a moment, and lifts her hand for Quinn to grab. “I want to show you something.” 

With a wary smile, Quinn obeys, clasping Santana’s hand and allowing the woman to lead her out of the bathroom to and towards the closed curtains of the bedroom. She switches off the lights on the way. “I paid for a cityview room,” Santana says, before tugging and letting New York into their room. 

It’s breathtaking. Quinn gasps, eyes roving over the colorful lights of the city, the red and white of the cars that move below them. 

She steps forward and places her fingers gently against the glass. Hands press in against her hips causing her breath to go uneven as Santana steps up behind her, curling into her back as they take in the view together. 

“Wow.” 

Lips press delicately against her ear, a tender and light kiss that sinks Quinn deeper into the woman that holds her. “Better than the fire escape at Rachel and Kurt’s shithole, right?” Santana whispers, breath hot on her neck. 

Quinn shudders. Her nerves seem alight with anticipation, because she is very, very aware of that bed, and very very aware of the way Santana’s fingers press in on her abdomen, solid and warm.

Being held by her is nothing like being held by a man, and yet Quinn feels safe… cherished. Being held by Santana is almost like petting a wild tiger – deeply satisfying but also frightening, and the result is a maelstrom of emotion that only serves to heighten her awareness of Santana’s fingers and her lips that ghost along her jaw. 

Still, she manages to reply flippantly, “It’s your shithole now, too.” 

Santana groans, chin dropping against her shoulder. “God, don’t remind me.” 

They fall silent. Before them, New York twinkles invitingly. 

Quinn is always thinking… but as she stands here with Santana, she suddenly realizes that for once since this has begun, she can’t feel ghost of Brittany at all. 

In this room, on this night, it’s just her and Santana. “Santana,” she breathes, and shuffles until she can tear her eyes from the view and focus instead on the beautiful face inches away from her own. “I’m glad I’m here with you.” 

Santana absorbs that. Her dark eyes seem almost black and Quinn wonders briefly if that old cliché about drowning in someone’s gaze is actually true. 

“Kiss me, Quinn.” 

Helpless, in love, and drugged with lust, Quinn leans in and opens her mouth hungrily against Santana’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm a tease. But honestly it was either end this now or not update at all today and I figured this was the lesser of two evils. Work is a beast, but I'm going to concentrate on getting out a new chapter in the next few days. Thanks!!


	11. Part Eleven. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 4

It’s amazing that in a city that is filled to the brim with so many people, Quinn can still feel as if there is no one else in the world. 

Even as Santana’s lips move gently against hers, even as Quinn’s heart beats increasingly faster, pumping blood into every part of her body with a rush that leaves her breathless and dizzy, she finds her mind contining to work, cataloging every single sense and emotion that flows through her as desperately and diligently as a court reporter. 

She files away the feel of the delicate rasp of Santana’s tongue, gently flicking against her swollen bottom lip. The way Santana tastes earthy and warm at first, but as each kiss gets deeper, Quinn gets just a little bit more tequila and citrus floating against her tongue. Santana has kicked off her heels sometime since they have arrived and as a result is significantly shorter than she is. Quinn is never more aware of that as she is now as they press tightly together with only the lights of the city to illuminate the dark room. It’s exhilarating, and it’s odd that she feels that way. Quinn used to think she preferred taller partners. 

And yet there’s something amazing about the fact that it’s her leaning down, chin nudging against Santana’s, head tilting as she manipulates the kiss with an open mouth and gentle hands. Fingers slide along Santana’s cheek and dig firmly into the thick raven hair at her nape, keeping Santana close – demanding it. Air puffs out of Santana’s nose, and a whimper lifts out of her throat that tells Quinn she has no complaints. 

It’s heated now – the languid, slow kisses that began this have progressed to a wet, searching tongue digging deep into Santana’s mouth. Quinn’s body has begun to move, shimmies with want against Santana’s firm form, and when Santana’s knuckles brush against the side of Quinn’s breast on their way past her hip to press in against the small of her back, Quinn shudders. She is suddenly very aware of Santana’s breasts fitted just underneath her own; Santana’s thigh that has found itself between Quinn’s, bouncing pressure against the core of her in such a way her knees nearly buckle. 

“God,” she mumbles, because it’s torture – this light friction, and yet she doesn’t want to give up her position just yet, not when Santana is kissing her so delicately, so intensely, not when they’re pressed together SO intimately. She’s ravaging Santana – she’s TREASURING Santana, and at the same time she wants to fuck her. It’s an animal type of possession; this sudden need to be INSIDE her, to lay claim to this body and mark it and brand it as her own. It’s unlike anything she’s felt before – it feels almost foreign and yet Quinn can feel the need coiling deep within her. 

This is her at her most basic feral instincts, and it seems fitting somehow, that Santana is the one who brought this out.

She always seems to get a rise out of her; to blur the lines and make Quinn lose control one way or another. 

The thought alone brings with it such a flush of want so overpowering Quinn feels her teeth dig sharply into Santana’s plump lower lip, causing the other woman to gasp before Quinn lifts and shifts, latching onto the strong column of Santana’s throat. 

“Fuck – Augh- Quinn-“ 

Fingernails clamp hard at her bicep, dig in so deep Quinn feels the pinch of them. She pays them no heed. She’s intoxicated by the taste of Santana's skin, the salty sweet combined with the stinging bitterness of her perfume, filling her nostrils with the seductive scent. 

Her tongue drags against Santana before she closes her mouth against a particularly spot, sucking in harder when Santana bucks up against her. 

“Quinn-“ 

Santana’s fingers are now in her hair, tangling quickly and pulling with an insistent pressure that forces Quinn’s lips to retreat and instead begin another assault on Santana’s hungry and open mouth. 

Santana matches her with equal intensity, and it’s exhilarating. For once, Quinn has no qualms, no Alice inside of her wondering about rabbit holes and how she’ll possibly dig herself out of them, no narrator shouting lyrics at her from inside her own head. Instead, all that exists is her own need, desperation and lust, that aching pressure in the pit of her stomach, her chest, and between her legs that has her nearly rutting against Santana, desperate to worship and be worshiped in return. 

But those fingers dig in again and pull once again, and this time, the pain is enough to make her gasp and her eyes water. “Quinn.” Hooded eyes open to meet Santana's dark stare, only centimeters away. Though her mouth still lingers breathlessly on Santana’s, she is intensely aware of her beating heart and heavy panting – as if the rest of her has not gotten the message that a pause has been put in place. Her fingers continue to stroke against Santana’s bare shoulders, desperate to keep contact. 

“What?” she manages because Santana’s fingers are firm, though the rest of her trembles in obvious emotion. 

“What are we doing?” 

For a moment, Quinn feels utterly stupid. Her brain is already fragmented with lust, and despite its determination to remain lucid and commit this all to memory, it leaves her with little reasoning skills. Isn't it obvious what they’re doing? 

This is a hotel room. Santana’s dress straps are already hanging off her shoulders and though it’s dark, Quinn’s reasonably sure that that is a mark on Santana’s neck produced by her own mouth. They’re standing together intimately in a strange room and Quinn is pretty damn sure that Santana booked it with the expressed purpose of fucking her. More than once.

“Huh?” she blurts, and it’s quite possibly the stupidest thing she’s ever uttered in her life, but it seems fitting because Santana’s question might be the dumbest she’s ever asked. "What do you mean, what are we doing?" 

Fingers close over her own, stilling her palm as it drifts distractedly along Santana's collarbone. The darkness in Santana's eyes seem unfathomly deep, but there is a hardness in her voice that wasn't there just a moment ago. "I mean what are we doing, Quinn." She's exasperated. " What is this?" 

It's difficult not to lose patience. "It's _sex_ , Santana," because obviously. 

Santana looks like she's been struck. That hand that was only keeping her palm from moving now pushes it off Santana's shoulder completely, and the other girl takes nearly a full step back. Quinn instantly feels a chill of regret. 

"... Is that all it is?" 

God, she can't handle this. Not the expression on Santana's face: vulnerable doe eyes that shine at her through the darkness accompanied with a trembling mouth. Not the way she looks so SMALL thanks to their exaggerated height difference. 

She's beautiful and fragile in a way that tears at Quinn and her lust, leaving behind those damn FEELINGS that have only intensified since their first drunken, ill-advised kiss. 

She senses the danger; sees the precipice she's standing on. The way her heart contracts in terror, how her breath hitches, it all tells her that she's so close to confessing everything, and then what will become of her? "Santana," she begins, throat tight in an effort not to beg. "Don't-" 

"Why not?" Santana asks, because she's a bitch and she's stubborn and she never learns when to just _stop_. "Why can't we fucking just TALK about this, Quinn?!" 

“What’s wrong with just sex?” she rasps, because that much at least, she's prepared to give. That much she can handle. Her heart, her mind, her body; it wants that physical manifestation of love - but only if she can mask it. If she can take what this really is and manipulate it, transform it enough to make believe it's just carnal, then once it's over, once she leaves and goes back to New Haven alone, she'll be okay. 

If she can't do that, if her raw bleeding heart remains vulnerable and open, if Santana digs into this deep chasm in her chest and fills it, and cementing her place inside of her like she belongs there-

No... Quinn has lost so much in her life... there is only so much a heart can take before it will be irreparably broken. 

“What’s wrong with more?!” 

Santana just doesn't... she doesn't GET it. "You and I can't HAVE more," she snaps, and it sounds so empty now. 

"Can't or won't?" 

A harsh laugh escapes from her as she turns away from Santana and her disquieting presence. "You tell me," she answers quietly, and watches as lights blink at her from a nearby building - a strobe light from a party in progress, most likely. "Tell me you didn't rent this room with the express purpose of getting IN me, Santana." 

Santana doesn't respond, and Quinn's mouth quirks bitterly, because the evidence is damning. It's at least, the one truth about Santana she absolutely knows. Santana wants her body. She wants to claim it as badly as Quinn wants to be claimed. 

She reaches out to run her fingers against the thick cloth of the curtain, running it along the rails back and forth. The sound it produces could be grating amidst the quiet, but instead the intrusion is almost soothing. 

"If you think that's all I want from you, then you're an idiot, Quinn." Maybe the liquor isn't quite out of her system yet, because Quinn finds that answer intensely funny. "Quinn, I've only been with one other girl and I can't handle _just_ sex. Not with you." 

It's not funny anymore. Quinn stops playing with the curtain, but can't quite bring herself to turn around. She instead absorbs what Santana is saying in that intensely vulnerable tone, and oddly, finally seems to hear it. 

It's as if a piece from a complicated puzzle has turned and finally fit itself into its slot. So much about herself and Santana in high school was superficial; each protected themselves with a false front to keep the world from seeing the soft underbelly of their worst truths. For Quinn, it was Lucy. For Santana: her sexuality. 

So she lied - she overcompensated. Where Quinn was pious and cold, she was loose and free, and once told Rachel to never say no to boys that wanted her. The more boys Santana had, the less gay she could be. 

Now Quinn knows better. Maybe she always knew. The Santana who emerged after she accepted the truth of her feelings for Brittany was not the loose, slutty Santana that was presented before. Santana's true nature was monogamous, protective and sweet. Santana in love was romantic and devoted, and though her very public outing had given her more than her share of internet fame and lesbian admirers, what Quinn imagined would be catnip to a newly out lesbian, Santana had always remained steadfast in her relationship. 

God, just the idea that she COULD be attracted to another woman had frightened her so much she confessed it to Brittany as if that was as bad as cheating. 

For all of Santana's experience with loveless sex and lust, she was just so... new. 

Boys meant nothing so the sex meant nothing for Santana...but for Santana the lesbian... sex with women is not meaningless. 

And here they are, and it's happening again. With her other best friend. With Quinn. 

On top of that, Santana has no home, no plan, no idea of what her life will be when just two months ago she probably had every dream in the world and every single part of her life laid out before her like a blueprint: a life with Brittany, a cheerleading scholarship, a hot and cold platonic friendship with Quinn-

Every single constant in her life has changed in such a short amount of time. 

Quinn's eyes water as she realizes suddenly that for Santana, there is too much shift. Too much is changing all at once and Quinn has no idea how to help her or guide her. 

And she can't. She can't help her. Not when she is one of those constantly changing factors. 

She feels so powerless, and she hates that feeling. Quinn has taken so many extremes in an effort to manipulate her life to her appropriate endgame and for what? She has a daughter who is being raised by another mother. A barely healed body that still keeps her up at night. 

Even when it comes to love, she has prodded and pushed and threatened and the result has always been the same. 

Now here she is with Santana, who stares at her as if she has every answer in the world. 

She doesn't have any answers. 

All she has is love. This selfless love that tells her Santana deserves to be happy. 

So she smiles a trembling grin that seems to frighten Santana at first, and with a painful exhale, whispers into the night, "Whatever happens between us, Santana, you're my best friend." Santana's eyes narrow, unsure what to do with it. Quinn's watery eyes glisten, and she finds herself surprisingly bold and oddly at peace as she reaches forward to take Santana's palm in hers, caressing the fingertips with sweet affection. She takes in this feeling, revels in it as she weighs her words carefully. "I know that this is new... but maybe we're not supposed to figure it out right now - no, listen to me-" she continues, when Santana huffs in exasperated frustration and attempts to pull away. "Listen." The fingers tighten; keep Santana in place until those dark eyes look at her one more time. Quinn takes a breath, and tries again. "Are you honestly telling me that you're over Brittany?" Santana's jaw clenches. Quinn's smile trembles. "That you know exactly what you want from me?" A heavy sigh erupts from Santana. She shifts, lost in her own tumultuous emotions. 

"Quinn-" 

"That right here, right now - you want to be my girlfriend?" 

They’re hard questions she's been too terrified to ask, and honestly she has no idea why she has the bravery to ask them now. Perhaps because she knows, deep down, that Santana doesn't have the answers either. 

"I just-" 

She lets go of Santana's palms to press a soothing touch against her friend’s chin, gentle as she lifts it so Santana can look her in the eye. She knows her eyes are shimmering in the darkness, but her smile is genuine. Santana stares at her like she's beautiful. "It's okay, Santana," she answers quietly, saving her friend from her own confusion. "There's no time limit on figuring things out. That's all I'm saying." 

She knows, deep down, that what they share is intimate and deep. They've always been two-of-a-kind, two bitch-slash-goddesses on the same love-hate spectrum. 

Santana's eyes flutter closed. Her forehead falls forward, gently pressing against Quinn's, as if she's gathering strength from her. "I meant what I said before," she whispers. 

Quinn sucks in a harsh breath; feels her heart tremble in response. "I know. So did I." 

"Quinn." Her eyes open. She lifts back just enough to see the way Santana looks at her, grateful and affectionate. "You're my best friend too." Some of the anxiety has lifted, at least, and Quinn's breath hitches at the scampy, gorgeous grin that suddenly graces Santana's features. "My really hot bestie that I really want to kiss right now. "

She says it playfully, but the emotion behind it is so sincere. Santana's lids have grown heavy; eyes obviously focused on her mouth. Santana's tongue darts along her bottom lip in anticipation. Along with the playfulness the lust has returned. Quinn finds she's infected by it too. Her hand lingers against Santana's neck, palming possessively. The skin feels warm under her touch, and she wants to feel more of it. 

They're two best friends who love each other and are insanely attracted to each other. Maybe for tonight, that's enough. 

"Then what are you waiting for?" she asks, but it comes out husky; a demand instead of a question. 

Santana’s smile quirks, fades, and with a heavy breath she leans in. Quinn’s ready and eager to meet her half way when the muffled sounds of Meredith Brooks' 'Bitch' begin to blare from Santana's boobs. 

Quinn blinks, thrown until she realizes that the buzzing vibration against her own nipple is actually Santana's phone hidden in Santana's cleavage, signaling an incoming call. 

Santana seems to be just as confused. "What the fuck is that?" she asks, looking down between them with wide, startled eyes. 

"It's your phone," Quinn says dryly, brow arching as it finally registers for Santana. 

"Oh," she says, blinking for a minute, before her eyes twinkle with mischief. "Wanna get it for me, Q?" 

It's a silly challenge, but Quinn's brow lifts anyway, smirk turning upward as her shoulders straighten and she boldly and without reservation curves her fingers between the clingy fabric and soft skin of Santana's cleavage to fish out the ringing mobile. 

Santana’s eyes darken, her mouth opens at the flutter of movement and with a sound that sounds like devastatingly sexy growl, she lunges forward. Quinn has discovered she's in a teasing mood, and she leans back just far enough away to avoid the tempting, plumps lips, to observe the caller instead. 

"It's Kurt," she says, laughing at the way Santana whines like a puppy deprived of a treat. "Should I get it?" 

"Oh, fuck Kurt-" Santana begins, palms already around her waist and mouth ghosting along her jaw, pulling insistently just as a pop from outside their window startles them both. 

A splash of color illuminates the night sky, and it's then that Quinn with an indrawn gasp realizes what's happening. "Santana, it's midnight." 

Santana's fingers twitch against Quinn's hip, keeping her close, but she watches the distant fireworks as they pop with fantastic brilliance. She seems dazed by their beauty. Quinn finds she's more absorbed by the wonder on Santana's face. 

Santana's phone buzzes in her hand, and Quinn goes with her instinct and answers the call, clicking on the speaker option. 

"Happy New Year!" She can barely make out Kurt's loud upper register because of all the noise of cheering and shouting in the background. 

Santana's eyes finally tear from the display outside the window to eye the phone amusedly. "Happy New Year, Lady Hummel," she drawls, and then frowns when Kurt immediately shushes her. 

"Rachel wanted you two to hear this," he says, and then by some miracle the background noise quiets suddenly. 

No, it's not a miracle, Quinn realizes with an indrawn breath. It's Rachel singing 'Auld Lang Syne', with her perfect pitch and vibrato. Even through the tinny phone speaker, her voice proves magnetic and joyous. It's not long before the crowd at Callbacks has joined in, and still, Rachel's voice rises above them all. 

Rachel once mentioned to Quinn that Santana told her she liked it when she sang, and looking at her friend now, Quinn wonders how she ever thought differently. Santana's eyes are shining, and she's listening with such intensity and joy, it appears almost the picture of rapture. 

It’s oddly heartwarming, to see Santana affected so easily by the power of Rachel’s voice. 

The little window above the call on Santana's phone says it's 12:01AM. 

The song's ending is drowned out by the cheers that follow it, and Quinn takes it as her cue to disconnect the call. 

Santana seems put out by the action. "Quinn-" 

But Quinn is overwhelmed with emotion and affection, and she’s done waiting. She kisses Santana, lips pressing softly against her mouth, lingering with an exhalation of pleasure that makes Santana hum along with her. Instantly her heart stutters with excitement, her body hums as if it’s been shocked. Still, Quinn feels almost lazy as she explores Santana's mouth with a tempered passion that seems more profound and restrained than any kiss that has occurred between them. She continues her unhurried, exploratory assault, nipping lightly at Santana's swollen lips and running her teeth teasingly over Santana's perfect teeth. 

One long moment later, she pulls away, just enough to study the beautiful face across from her own, to truly absorb this moment. 

This is real. This is happening. If nothing else, they will have always have this moment. 

"Happy New Years, Santana," she whispers, breath ghosting against those lips that then pillow immediately into her own. Santana murmurs those words back at her, but they lose their meaning when their mouths open hungrily against each other. 

She’s not sure how long they keep up the deep, searching kisses. She does know that her thighs have begun to tremble and that she’s so wet it’s almost distracting. She’s so aware of it that she finds it hard to focus on almost anything else. 

It's not until her back presses up suddenly against cold glass that she discovers they have been making their way to the window. Santana's fingers have lost any hesitation. She's spread them open to palms Quinn's hips and waist with unbridled enthusiasm, gripping her tightly to gather fistfuls of material, tugging and pulling. It as if Santana can’t decide whether she should continue the journey up or down. 

Quinn doesn’t know where she wants her more. 

For her part, Quinn discovers herself handicapped. Though one hand is once again digging into Santana’s raven locks, she still holds Santana's phone in her other hand. She’s flushed now, and still somehow half-afraid she’s going to drop the phone and break it. Already, Santana's smooth hands have yanked harder at her dress and managed to reach into her cleavage, flicking fingers against a sensitive nipple with such unbridled enthusiasm Quinn yelps and shudders, clawing at Santana's neck and nearly knocking her own phone against her friend's head. 

She flails for a moment before she gives up and tosses her arm over Santana’s shoulder, using her forearm to yank Santana in closer, crushing her mouth against Santana’s lips. 

Santana uses both palms to go around Quinn’s waist, tongue sinking deep into Quinn’s mouth as she fudges with Quinn’s zipper.

Quinn feels wanton, out of control. There’s enough of that Christian girl inside of her that abstractly looks on with horror as she shifts to help, lifting away from the glass to give Santana the room she needs to loosen the dress around her shoulders. She’s giving herself so freely – no pulling away, no boundaries. Her legs are spread and Santana’s pumping her hips between them, grinding into her with such enthusiasm Quinn finds herself uttering a steady stream of moans. 

It’s this lust, this desperate need, that keeps her from being her usual self-conscious self. She doesn’t care about the stretch marks that skim against her breasts, or how her arms feel less than toned, or the way her nipples always seemed too big for her own comfort. 

All she cares about is the look on Santana’s face when she sees them, gasping so loudly it’s impossible to ignore. “Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, and then Santana roughly palms a nipple, plucking at it and nearly mauling the breast. “Where the hell have you been hiding these?” 

"Ass," she laughs, but it's an empty word when her hips buck, seeking the friction of Santana's waist and her chest arches wantonly into Santana's hand. The cold of the glass is a striking contrast to the heat of Santana pressed so tightly against her but Quinn finds she doesn't mind either. It's only with dim awareness that she even registers that the fireworks are still happening, and it seems impossible to care about that manufactured beauty when her neck and collarbone are currently being laved with wet kisses and a hot tongue. Santana takes her time. The dress has pooled along her waist, she’s half naked and she can only deal with the frigid class because of the heat of Santana’s mouth, sucking and nipping down her chest to drag her teeth along her right breast. 

When the phone buzzes once again, Quinn nearly drops it in her surprise. She jerks her head back and momentarily sees stars when she bangs hard against the glass of the window. 

"Quinn!" 

It’d be seriously funny if she wasn’t so annoyed with the interruption. "Your damn phone,” she gasps and clutches at it awkwardly as she tilts it against Santana's shoulder to read the caller. “Probably Kurt and Rachel again-“ 

“Tell them to fuck off. We’re not in their bathroom.” 

She’s actually quite prepared to tell them just that when she looks at the blinking name of the incoming caller.

It’s not Kurt or Rachel. 

"Quinn. Are you okay?" 

The cold that seeps into her bare back and shoulders from the glass now seems to overtake her completely. 

Her heartbeat slows. Her head rings. 

It's with valiant effort that she turns the phone and shows the caller to Santana. 

Santana's expression is hooded and hard to read. The phone continues to buzz, and Quinn doesn't know what to do, sitting there with a phone that's ringing with a call for Santana. 

"You should answer it,” she says with a quiet, tortured rasp, because it means something that Brittany is calling at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’ll mean something to Santana. And she’ll keep quiet when Santana does answer the call, because she knows that Brittany is probably unaware of where Santana is spending her New Years, and even if she were, chances are she would not suspect they were together alone, with Quinn half naked and arching underneath Santana’s mouth. 

Santana doesn’t move. She looks as frozen as the wall of glass at Quinn’s back.

Once again, she’s lost as to what to do, torn between her heart and her lust. 

Quinn sucks in a soldiering breath, and though she feels stupid standing there with her breasts on display and her lips swollen, her hair mussed, she draws her arm back over Santana's shoulder and prepares to connect the call. 

This is how their evening will end, and Quinn will hate it, but she promised to be Santana’s friend, and she knows she loves her. 

She reaches with her thumb, and discovers with a rush of pain that Santana has now ripped the phone out of her palm with a viciousness that startles her. 

Quinn swallows hard, but doesn’t say a word. 

Santana never looks at the phone. She just stares at Quinn, that same frozen lost girl. 

Suddenly, a different button is pressed and the phone goes silent. 

Brittany’s call is ignored, and Santana’s phone is tossed onto a nearby sofa. 

Dizzy, out of breath and cold, Quinn doesn’t know what’s happened. This time it’s her that offers the silent, questioning gaze, eyes flickering from the dark sofa to the blazing fury in Santana’s eyes. 

Santana answers her with a shrug that seems so loaded despite the simplicity of the movement. "Tonight is about us, Quinn." 

Then her lips are on Quinn’s again, her arms wrap around her shoulders, and Quinn is being kissed with a fervent passion that cements Santana’s words. 

Brittany’s call changes the momentum. The lazy exploration, the sweet lovemaking – it’s overwhelmed, like a match that has been lit and burned away. Santana’s lovemaking is rough and dominating. She opens her mouth over Quinn’s breasts and sucks her nipple into her mouth almost harshly. Quinn cries out, feels the pleasure as fiercely as she would feel any sort of pain, and it makes her a slave to it. She begins to claw with her own fingers, dragging the straps of Santana’s dress further down her body until it’s pushed past her hips and Santana’s kicking it awkwardly past her feet. 

There’s so much skin to explore, but Quinn discovers she can do nothing but whimper. There’s been weeks of wanting, of desire and foreplay and FINALLY now there’s nothing between them – no bathrooms and Kurt or roommates or Brittany or even their own doubts. 

Quinn can’t wait anymore. She shoves at her own dress, feeling it slide down her legs and nearly trips on her wedges as she leans forward to capture Santana’s lips once more. 

She feels almost possessed as she reaches up to grab hold of Santana’s palm and drags it from her breast, down her trembling stomach and beneath her thong. 

“AUGH,” she hears, and nearly sobs at the same time because FINALLY, Santana’s there, sinking between her soaked lips to trip over her clit, circling it slowly. “Fuck Quinn,” Santana whispers, so lost in the movement she’s stopped kissing her and instead just pants against her mouth. Santana fingers slide through her wetness, causing her hips to convulse and Quinn’s hands to flail, searching for purchase as Santana explores her. 

It’s not enough. Quinn needs more. She’s tired of the teasing. “Santana,” she whimpers and doesn’t care if it comes off as desperate. She pulls at her own thong, jerking it past her thighs, struggling until Santana helps her, until she’s naked but for her wedges, splayed against the window with Santana pressed up against her, hand between her spread legs, feeling Quinn buck into her. “Fuck. Me,” Quinn manages, because it’s what she needs. She wants Santana inside her. She wants this to be REAL. 

No more teasing. No more wishing. She wants carnal and raw and pleasure and pain. 

“Quinn, fuck-“ 

Her fingers slip, slide almost too easily inside of Quinn. Quinn feels the invasion, nearly sobs with the relief of it. Santana’s tongue coaxes her mouth open, and Quinn sucks on it gladly, hips pumping wildly to keep Santana inside of her, keep her pumping. 

There’s more – Santana’s added another finger – it feels fucking amazing. 

She’s taken against the window by her best friend, with her heart pumping so furiously she’s sure she may die from a heart attack before the coil that builds tightens to the point of release. But God, it would be worth it. It would be WORTH IT. 

She feels herself clench – even in lovemaking she’s selfish, wanting to keep Santana’s fingers inside of her, despite how GOOD it feels when she pumps in and slides out, mashing her palm against Quinn’s clit with every thrust. 

“Please don’t stop,” she pleads and Santana grunts ‘Never’ in response and it makes her eyes water because that’s exactly what she wants. 

Her orgasm hits her before she’s ready and in her head all she hears is ‘Forever’ and ‘Never’ and it all mashes together until the words lose all meaning and all that’s left is Santana and this feeling. 

*********


	12. So I Cross My Heart & I Hope to Die

It’s January 1st, officially. Right about this time last year, and the year before that, Quinn had been making plans. Cursing every resolution that was thrown off track and congratulating herself for every goal that was met and checked off her list.

Quinn had dreams, but she learned very quickly as a child that no one would ever make them come true if she didn’t work hard as hell to achieve them.

That is Quinn’s way. To plan… to prepare.

Still, experience has taught her that life, and her own specific journey, does not come without tragic missteps. Sure, she got her body and her face, but she also got pregnant. Maybe she got popularity and the Cheerio’s top spot, but she lost a friendship with Santana in the process. She got her dream jock, her perfect partner, but he dumped her for the imperfect Rachel Berry. She got her feet back under her, her dreams back in focus, she got YALE, but she also got a traumatic accident and months in a wheel chair.

Quinn’s stopped dreaming.

It’s become a habit to view the upcoming New Year with a certain amount of dread, mostly out of sheer fear of what unexpected obstacles may come.

They always come. They always hurt her in away she’s never been able to imagine.

And yet… this year for some reason… it’s different.

Quinn has every reason to dread the upcoming year, because in reality nothing really has changed. The ghost of Brittany still lingers, and she’s not really a ghost, but a living, breathing girl who Santana loves and who, Quinn is reasonably sure, still loves Santana. There’s the fact that though she came to New York with Santana, she will be returning to New Haven alone. And that nagging, horrible, nasty whisper in the back of her mind that labels herself a slut and a fool because she’s given herself exactly in a way she told herself she never would again, and it’s more terrifying than ever, because she FEELS more now.

Quinn has set herself up perfectly for a checkmate of almost certain heartbreak.

And yet that dread is buried deep, challenged instead by the sweet, sweet emotion that accompanies her curiously thumping heart. Her wounded muscle beats in a steady refrain as her usually lightning quick brain processes every sensation with the drunk elation of a woman in love.

Every instinct that usually tells her to flee is dormant, and living in the present is the only choice Quinn chooses to make.

Of course, it’s made infinitely easier by the scalding hot water that flows in around her, massaging jets of liquid that pulse and massage against her sated and somehow still sore muscles. Soapy bubbles float on the surface, coating her skin with scented oil, and in her arms, naked and snug, pillowed in against her bare breasts, is Santana Lopez.

It’s mind blowing, that this is where she is in the early hours of New Year’s morning. She’s naked and vulnerable, and yet feels secure ad safe, intimately entwined with a woman she once swore she hated.

Music flows in distantly from the hotel room from the IPhone that Quinn has mounted on the hotel-provided speaker-slash-alarm clock. She’s opted for a shuffling playlist, and currently, it’s a schmaltzy and cheesy Everly Brothers’ tune that quietly croons with beautiful harmonies and gentle guitar strumming, floating sweetly through the open bathroom door into the humid and wet bath area.

The steady weight of Santana pressed back against her is distractingly precious. Once again, there is that primal exhilaration as Quinn spreads her fingers possessively around Santana’s waist. She’s an observer of details, and so she finds herself enamored with the rippling, strong muscles of Santana’s stomach, taking note of each indentation as her spare hand trails up the moist skin of Santana’s forearm.

They’re acting like lovers, and Quinn wonders at that, and then doesn’t.

If they’re acting like lovers it’s because they are. That line was crossed at almost midnight exactly, when long fingers slipped deep inside of Quinn, and a hot mouth branded her so ravenously she feels owned and possessed in return.

It’s also a little odd that Santana didn’t immediately allow her to return the favor. Quinn wants to, and she tried, desperately, on shaky legs and fatigued limbs that reached for Santana and initiated a deep, hungry kiss.

But when the clothes fell away completely and Quinn, back cold and skin icy thanks the frigid glass she had been pinned against, shivered against Santana, her friend paused their heated caress, and instead led them not towards the bed, but the bathroom.

Quinn’s not sexually inexperienced. Not anymore. She’s been a Skank and a professor’s young plaything. She used her sexual appeal to snag high school jocks and seduced Finn back to her when she lost Sam to Santana and her own cheating. She knows the chastity queen’s mantle has stuck, but that’s not her, not anymore. Quinn has issues with intimacy, but sex has always felt necessary.

It’s never felt like this.

Quinn’s nakedness has always been a point of anxiety for her. She’s too aware of the changes that her high school tragedies have inflicted upon her. That perfect body she worked so hard for now features a mishmash of scars and imperfections. She’s seen the surprise, the winces that come so easily to David’s face when he first encountered them. He saw perfection in a face, and expected the same underneath.

There’s a reason why Quinn keeps her lovemaking to dark corners and fumbled under clothes.

But Santana… there’s very little she hasn’t seen. Before the sex came the friendship, and with it were shaking hands and watery eyes that silently delivered a thousand apologies as she and Brittany snuck into Quinn’s room against her angry barks to leave her alone and helped her bathe, helped her change, did everything they could in the wake of the accident they could not have prevented to make up for the fact that they did not offer the same kind of support during her pregnancy.

Maybe it was proof that despite themselves, they’d all actually grown. Quinn emerged in her chair with optimism, not bitterness, and Brittany and Santana, in love and together, remained friends in every sense of the word.

God, has it really only been a year since last Christmas?

Santana’s head slides comfortably on her collar bone, cheek sliding against Quinn’s drifting hand, and suddenly a low, throaty chuckle floats out of her mouth, half muffled by the way Santana’s lips ghost down the side of her arm.

Quinn’s brow rises in curiosity. “What?” she asks, tone soft and thick, almost as if the humidity in the room has infected her speech. Santana doesn’t answer, and Quinn’s fingers flick against Santana’s sensitive stomach in complaint.

The water splashes up against the side of the porcelain tub as the other woman shifts, reaching under the shifting liquid to cover Quinn’s fingers the moment she begins to tickle the defined muscles.

“Nothing!” she insists, and squeals lightly when Quinn discovers a particularly vulnerable spot. “I just… Come on!” She shimmies, laughing as she scrambles in Quinn’s lap. “Stop!” Wet hair slaps against Quinn’s bare nipple, producing a sensation distracting enough to give Quinn pause. Santana cranes her head back to flash what can only be described as a very smug smile. “Don’t tell me you ever thought that this is how you’d spend your New Year’s Eve.”

The corners of her lips lift without hesitation. “What, naked in a hot tub with Santana Lopez?” she asks sarcastically.

The smile on Santana’s face turns a little bit primal. She’s got ridiculously pointed teeth, which for some time had Brittany convinced that Santana was secretly part-canine. Baffling, yes, but oddly sensible considering the way Santana and Lord Tubbington would bicker and fight like… well… cats and dogs.

And it’s appealing. Santana is damn predatory now, with those white, perfect teeth and those hooded dark eyes that stare at her with such ill-disguised want, Quinn finds herself squirming. Santana’s so damn beautiful. She’s a sodden mermaid goddess, deliberately casual and openly seducing as she shifts in the water, hips rolling as she swivels in Quinn’s arms. Quinn’s breath is stolen the moment Santana’s fingers slip deliberately to the nape of her neck, body curling as her knees widen to straddle her, opening herself up in a way that allows her body to press intimately against Quinn’s core.

“Mmhmm.”

Quinn’s moan is weak, muffled as she bites down hard on her lips, determined to keep herself at least somewhat in control as Santana grinds down a dirty rhythm. Hard nipples brush against Quinn’s own. And God… who knew that would feel as amazing as it does?

Lips caress her cheek, hot breath skims across her nose. Quinn’s heart, beating so quietly content before, now hammers against wildly. There’s a very real fear that it will explode out of her chest.

“The same Santana Lopez that just fucked you up against a window,” comes the soft, thick whisper. Quinn focuses on Santana’s face, centimeters from her own, on pupils black and vivid with the memory.

Quinn’s appreciative groan is wrenched out of her as Santana’s mouth descends on her own hungrily. It’s a dirty, lewd kiss. Their coupling against the window, their first time, had been fast and furious, a fervent event of emotion. It was torrid lovemaking and possession, with fumbling movements and awkward and fantastic thrusts designed to fling Quinn over the edge into the best orgasm of her life.

This Santana is different. This Santana, who sucks on her tongue with a purr and a smile, seems to revel in proving a point. She’s enjoying Quinn’s flustered lust, seems to love the feeling of Quinn’s pussy jerking up against hers. She loves this Quinn, bent to her will and literally trapped by their surprisingly magnificent passion.

She means to fuck Quinn again. She’s already trying, thumb circling around Quinn’s nipple as her hips grind and pivot, sloshing water over the tub as she bites down on Quinn’s lower lip.

And God, Quinn may love the girl. She may lust after her the way a pirate lusts after a tavern wench (which is a ridiculous thing to think of, but Quinn does have a weakness for historical romance smut), but this is still Santana Lopez, and she is still Quinn Fabray, everything has always been a competition.

It’s time to even the score.

She breaks the kiss, sucking in a harsh breath as she traps Santana’s hand between them. “Don’t sound so damn cocky about it,” she snaps, but loses some gumption when Santana just keeps kissing her, sliding off her lips to drag her teeth against Quinn’s jawbone, before she goes lower still, sucking and nibbling a burning trail across Quinn’s wet skin to the very sensitive spot just under her ear.

“Fuck.”

Santana chuckles. It’s infuriating. It takes very little for Santana to get her fingers free, and once again she goes back to her breast, cupping the bauble with a cocky possessiveness, flicking across her hard nipple with a pointed ferocity that makes Quinn’s hips buck up. Of course all that does it put her right up against Santana’s open, heated core, and that does NOT slow this down.

“I think I have a right to be cocky,” she hears, and then Santana actually has the nerve to lick her. It’s unexpected, and it causes Quinn’s fingers to flail, curling and finding purchase against Santana’s bare back. “This is Quinn Fabray’s breast, isn’t it?” she hears, and muffles her own curse as Santana’s hips swivel down again. “It’s Quinn Fabray’s clit that’s rubbing up against mine.” It’s almost horrifying, how wet that makes her, how she can actually FEEL it, the way Santana’s pussy slips and slides against her own, lewd and dirty and everything she never knew she always needed.

“GOD,” she whispers, and digs in against Santana’s bare back, scratching down to keep at least SOME measure of control.

“I’m the one that’s fucking Quinn Fabray,” she hears, over the fog of her own lust and sensation. “She’s coming for ME.”

God, Santana sounds so fucking PLEASED with herself. Little Miss Repressed Lesbian reveling in some high school horny boy fantasy, dismantling Quinn with her fingers, her lips, her wet, wet pussy.

It’s not… it’s not going to go this way. Not now. Quinn’s not a college athlete, but when she was a Cheerio, Santana answered to her. Whatever fucked up little power trip Santana’s in the middle of? It’s over.

It’s Quinn’s turn.

The smile that she paints on her lips, the low, wicked chuckle she lets out is disarming, she knows it is. Santana’s falters. Quinn uses the opportunity to clamp her hands down on the sides of Santana’s waist, stilling the movement. “You sure about that?” she asks, brow arching, smirk dimpled on her face.

She’s ridiculously turned on. She’s naked in a bath, intimately entwined with another woman. There’s a flush on Santana’s face, and a dark look in her eyes, swollen lips that beg for her mouth.

She’s hers. Even if only for one night, Santana is HERS. And maybe Santana Lopez fucked her up against a window, but Quinn Fabray is going to be the one to fuck her in a tub.

It’s an exhilarating sort of freedom to heed her impulses. Her mouth finds Santana’s because she wants to kiss her and she can. Santana meets her halfway, eager and full of whimpers and sweet sighs, and the jolt of excitement and joyful lust that shivers through her as Santana’s tongue licks the edge of her lip is more euphoric than any blunt a homeless hobo can give her.

She wants Santana. She wants her mouth. She wants her breasts, and those slender arms. She wants those full, gorgeous breasts and that flat, sensitive stomach that trembles under her fingers. She wants her marked, scratched and bruised with Quinn’s own passion. She wants Santana’s carefully waxed pussy palmed by her own hand, feeling slick heat and hearing Santana’s cries of pleasure in reaction.

She wants everything.

She takes it.

With her tongue curling around Santana’s, sucking in greedily, Quinn’s hands boldly slide over hips, until she’s slipping lower between them. Under the water, she’s guided only by sensation, and God, she wants to feel this. She does, humming in her own excitement when she spreads her fingers against wet, slippery soft folds. Hips jerk, legs tremble, and Quinn is undone.

“FUCK.” Santana clamps her own fingers on Quinn’s cheeks, whimpering against Quinn’s mouth.

The water splashes over the tub again. The music just keeps playing. And yet all Quinn can focus on, all she WANTS to focus on is the sweetness of the movements, the way her fingers open up Santana, as she slips an index finger along the slit, tripping against a hooded little nub.

“Augh.” Santana’s tongue desperately invades her, a wordless plea. She’s gorgeous, writing against Quinn’s hand, kisses sloppy and grip fierce, nearly bruising Quinn’s face.

It’s a revelation. One small movement, one digit circling the tiniest of places, a hidden little muscle that hardens against her finger, is what is dismantling this sodden goddess. This is Santana Lopez, unraveling because of HER touch, just the pressure of blunt fingernails and soaked fingertips, slipping between skin and wetness that washes away with the water they’re both submerged in.

“FUCK, Quinn.”

And God, it’s HER name that Santana’s saying… not just saying, but pleading it, soaked with emotion and distress, as Santana damn well nearly humps her hand with the force of her own lust.

“Please,” she hears, and though Quinn is a novice at this, she understands what it is that Santana needs.

She searches blindly, and discovers herself sinking into Santana almost accidentally, two fingers that press into liquid warmth, curl against a textured wall that encases them on all sides.

God.

Santana’s hands flail, slap against her shoulders, and though their mouths stay open and pressed against each other, there is no room for kissing now. Just harsh breaths that match the slow, deliberate way that Quinn circles her fingers, feeling her way inside of Santana.

Flushed, delirious with want, Quinn’s forehead tilts against Santana. Dark eyes bore into her own, and Quinn can’t look away. She feels possessed. Is this really her? The girl with her fingers inside of Santana? Is she really the one that Santana is whimpering for? Clamping down against her, shifting in wordless, wanton lust as she presses against Quinn’s thighs and lifts up, only to sink down and impale herself again?

“Who’s fucking you?” she whispers, desperate to know, desperate to BE known. “Santana,” she whispers, and keeps her grip on Santana’s waist, halting her lover’s grinding arch. A needy, pitiful whine erupts from that gorgeous woman. “Who’s fucking you?”

Long lashes blink in frustration. White teeth dig down harshly on a pillowy soft lower lip, and Quinn’s fingers do not move. Quinn feels the way Santana’s muscles flutter around her. It’s intoxicating. It’s euphoric.

“It’s you,” Santana mumbles harshly. “Fuck, Quinn, it’s you… You’re fucking – FUCK-“

Quinn’s forearm flexes, kick-starting the rhythm of their coupling, using the water to lift Santana and sink deeper into her. Her chest tightens, her body hums with the adrenaline, and her mouth sucks the words out of Santana’s lips, swallowing them whole.

Her tempo is at once frantic and controlled. Santana’s body bucks wildly. The water tips and rolls, waves in the disturbance, splatting on the tile beside them. Quinn’s wrist aches with the angle, and yet she doesn’t stop, isn’t sure how on earth she’ll EVER stop when Santana looks like this, feels like this.

Santana mouth is open, pants hard and loud. She keeps shout-whispering Quinn’s name, as if caught in some sort of time loop, and her fingers come between them, to fumble at her own clit, tripping against Quinn’s in the process.

It’s insane. It’s sinful. It’s so deliciously addicting. Hips rut against hips, breasts slip and slap against each other, teeth clank in sloppy, greedy kisses. She’s taking Santana’s higher, speeding with her up this insane precipice, chasing pleasure that is both carnal and emotional.

Santana, wanton and unhinged, with three of Quinn’s fingers buried deep within her and her own fingers rubbing at her clit, comes with a rough exhalation and the sound of Quinn’s name of her lips. With the orgasm are muscles that tighten and clamp around Quinn’s digits, gushing wetness that spreads against her palm.

_In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again._

It’s a maddening thought, and Quinn pushes it out immediately. There’s so much else she can focus on. The way Santana collapses against her, heavy and vulnerable. The way those muscles still pulse around her, like the world’s most amazing aftershocks. Santana’s head falls into the crook of her neck, and Quinn is sure that Santana can feel the way her heart thuds at her nearness.

She’s sure she can.

Because she can feel Santana’s.

She holds her, cherishes her, and when the muscles push and her fingers slip out, it feels like a loss.

That feeling is only momentary, because Santana kisses her as soon as it happens: a chaste, gorgeous kiss that feels like its being delivered at the end of the world.

Her Iphone seems determined to fuck with her emotionally fragile state. A piano cover of ‘Clarity’ is what comes through the open doorway.

Her heartbeat slows, thuds painfully.

This is only one night.

“I just got fucked by Quinn Fabray.”

The way Santana says it, so giddy and pleased with herself, like a horny kid in high school, causes a burst of laughter that breaks the thick intensity.

Quinn’s almost grateful for it. “Oh shut up!” Her playfulness returns, as she slips her hand underneath the water to deliver a tickle against Santana’s ribs that has the other girl squealing and splashing what little water is left in the tub thanks to their frantic fucking, out of it.

“Stop,” Santana pleads, laughing almost desperately. Quinn coaxes an unsteady laugh out of Santana when her hand sneaks up past her ribs and curves around a soapy and slick breast. Santana slaps at her hand, and as if to compromise, gives Quinn another kiss, lustful and sweet, before she collapses once again against her. Slender fingers paint wet circles on Quinn’s bare shoulders. “I’m sorry, it’s just… not even in my wildest dreams… did I ever imagine being fucked in a spa tub by Quinn Fabray.”

It’s both annoying and endearing that Santana will not stop using her full name. “Really…” Now she’s a bit skeptical, because the way Santana’s talking, it sounds very MUCH like this is not just a dream, but a fantasy. “Not even once? Not after that time at cheer camp when you saw me naked?”

It’s ridiculous. Santana’s naughty horny smile should NOT be as adorable as it is. “Maybe once,” she hedges.

“Oh yeah?” The grin that spreads across Quinn’s face feels ridiculously proportioned. Maybe she should be scandalized, because this is Santana admitting that she’s wanted her, at least in some way, since freshman year.

But the thought just makes her feel stupidly giddy. She conjures up the image of the Santana of four years ago, skinny but growing into her looks, hormonal and closeted, thinking about her. “Interesting.”

“Fuck you, you’re enjoying this way too much!” Santana bursts, and Quinn just shuts her up with a bruising, intense kiss. “Yeah okay,” Santana sighs, moments after their mouths part and their cheeks skim against each other. “Maybe more than once, you cocky bitch.”

*********

Quinn glances at herself in the bathroom mirror as she slips one of the hotel-provided bathrobes over her shoulders. It’s curious, what she sees.

Staring back at her is Quinn Fabray, Lucy with stars in her eyes, with mussed blonde hair and sore, puffy red lips. Those hazel eyes that seem so piercing and judgmental on any given day just seem to stare back, and Quinn wonders, what it is that makes her beautiful.

She’s heard it from so many people, how gorgeous her man-made face is. How lucky she is to have these sculpted features and colored eyes. Quinn has never felt lucky. She’s never felt fortunate.

She looks in the mirror and rarely sees herself. She sees a fat girl. She sees herself turning into an older version of her mother. She used to see a prom queen. Recently, she looked in the mirror at David’s bachelor apartment and saw a desperate, young mistress.

But here, freshly fucked and probably on her way to her third round of Sapphic sex, Quinn Fabray just looks… she looks …

She looks like a woman who has just had mindblowing sex. She looks nervous. She looks a little sad, nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then, there’s, a barely there whisper of a smile because behind her is the tub and with it come memories of Santana astride her.

Santana, who used to dream about her.

“Holy shit.”

The voice that calls out distracts her, and Quinn sucks in her breath and straightens her shoulders. “What?” she asks, because left to her own devices in the room while Quinn uses the bathroom to ‘freshen up’, Santana sounds oddly excited.

“The hotel left us an intimacy kit!”

Confused, Quinn reties the straps of her robes and pads lightly out of the bathroom to discover Santana with her own robe hanging open, holding a small black cardboard box that she’s apparently just picked up off the mini bar.

“An intimacy kit?” she questions, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, curiously cautious and a little skeptical.

The bright eyes that Santana flashes her are vibrant and beautiful. “It’s a sex kit, Quinn!” She’s enchantingly giddy about this. “They gave us a New Year’s Eve Sex Kit!”

Quinn frowns at the idea. She supposes it makes some sort of sense. “I wasn’t aware we needed directions…” she begins, amused against her own better judgment when Santana excitedly begins to dig into the little box and drop the contents out onto the still ironically made bed. “Pretty sure we’ve been doing fine on our own.”

But Santana is already digging in, plucking out a foil-wrapped condom and making a face at it, flicking it off the bed. “Gross.”

Quinn presses her lips together to hide her smile.

“Ooh, look, look!” Santana holds up a tiny little packet and grins wickedly. “Lube.”

Okay, now she’s curious. Stepping forward, Quinn sinks her bare feet into the surprisingly plush carpet and climbs carefully onto the bed, eyeing the contents that scatter over the comforter.

The still made comforter.

Quinn has never considered herself especially kinky, but there is some pride to be taken in the fact that they’ve only just now made it to the bed.

God, if her parents could only see her now.

The thought makes her stomach turn in disgust. She really preferred they wouldn’t.

“Spermicide? What the fuck?” Once again brought back to Santana, Quinn finds herself wondering how on earth anyone could ever have mistaken Santana for anything other than the truest lesbian on the planet. She looks positively disgusted as she flicks the offending article off the bed to join the condom.

It’s adorably bemusing.

“So… spermicide, condoms, lubrication jelly, and towelettes,” Quinn surmises, fingernail tapping at the hotel provided packets.

“Mmhmm.” It’s unfairly cute that Santana is so disappointed with the offering. “Fuck this. If we were two gay guys, we’d have the night of our lives!”

God, she’s in trouble. She really is. Santana so disappointed that her sex box has no lesbian-friendly (okay maybe the lube) tokens is just…

Quinn presses her lips together, and finds herself unable to resist letting her gaze linger on Santana’s breasts, teasing and plump under the open robe. “I kinda thought we already were.”

She’s not sure how her voice even managed to become as husky as it did, but Santana, with her dark eyes hooded underneath her lashes, seems very affected.

The intimacy kit is forgotten when Santana leans over, and with intent, tugs at the ties of Quinn’s robes the moment her lips meet Quinn’s mouth.

*********

Lazy, and a little sore, Quinn licks her lips, humming with the lingering taste of Santana’s sex on her tongue. If there was ever a question of Quinn’s sexual identity, she’s pretty sure it’s answered. She’s absolutely shattered any allusions or arguments against her same sax leanings. Not that there’s some sort of litmus test for this sort of thing, but if there was, going down on a girl and loving it, and loving it just as much when the favor was returned makes her really frickin gay.

And also a little pissed at every boyfriend who seemed to have such a problem with it, because honestly, how on earth can someone hate doing THAT? There’s so much to worship about a woman in the throes of passion. Just the sounds, the way Santana’s back arched, the way those strong thighs locked against her ears, and the way her cries went husky…

The feel of those muscles reacting to her… the wetness coated on her chin…

And then to have that done to her… to feel the passion and enthusiasm, the way Santana groaned at the smell of her and licked against her like she was the most delicious thing on earth.

Quinn is used to being winded by Santana’s tongue. She NEVER expected to be dismantled this easily by it.

Yeah okay… she may not be completely lesbian but there is definitely a lot that is gay about Quinn Fabray.

Because even after all that passion, what lingers is this beautiful intimacy.

“It’s New Year’s,” she hears, mumbled words that are muffled by her skin. She’s spooned in tightly to Santana, watching as Santana presses idle kisses to her bare shoulder and plays with their entwined fingers. “Shouldn’t we talk about resolutions?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” she responds quietly, eyes on Santana’s slender digits and how they skim against her own. She can still smell herself on them.

A tender bite on her skin brings her back to the conversation. “Since when does Quinn Fabray have any sort of lack of ambition?” Santana is teasing, but she lacks her usual malice.

Quinn decides not to take offense. “What does that mean?”

“Dunno,” Santana answers after a moment. The dark night has made her quiet and reflective. “You just… always seem to have plans.”

It’s a bitter reminder, because yes, Quinn did have plans. Many, many failed plans. “Couldn’t I say the same about you? You haven’t exactly been the think-it-through-type lately.”

It’s mean. It’s stupid. And she regrets the retort the moment she feels Santana stiffen around her.

Quinn is such a bitch. Santana makes to pull away but she holds her close, keeps her tightly wound around her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Santana…”

A deep sigh exhales against her, but Santana stays.

“Remember when we used to dream, Quinn? Why don’t have them anymore?” It’s a frightfully familiar sentence. Quinn remembers saying something very similar to Brittany and Santana in a New York hotel room. She opened up to them because at the time, she thought they would understand. She hoped desperately they would. She needed that solidarity, because Brittany had just lost Artie and Santana was in an obviously loveless façade with Karofsky and she wanted to feel less alone.

All they could give her was a pair of downcast looks, furtive glances that broke Quinn’s already broken heart further, because she knew then, that she was truly alone. They wouldn’t tell her, but Quinn knew at that moment that they were in love, and nobody loved Quinn.

Her throat tightens, and unable to help herself, Quinn brings those tan fingers to her mouth, inhaling her scent and pressing her mouth against them. “I dunno,” she whispers. “Maybe I’m just afraid to dream, Santana.”

Somehow, even after all they’ve shared, she’s still not used to this. She’s naked, literally, vulnerable, literally. She’s tasted the most intimate parts of Santana, and been tasted in return and yet… now… this…

Santana shuffles in, knee edging between hers, tangling feet and burying her face into the crook of Quinn’s neck, holding her so damn tightly. “Quinn…”

God, this is what terrifies her. How badly she needs this. She’s grateful that she can’t see Santana’s gorgeous face, with those dark glistening eyes, that will look at her and remember that she’s nothing but a tragedy.

“It’s never worked out for me, Santana.” The admission is weak. “I had dreams… I had so many dreams and all they’ve been is crushed.” Her vision goes blurry, but she feels the press of Santana, and blinks against the tears. “I dreamt of leaving Lima with the perfect boyfriend, and then I got pregnant. Then after I had Beth…” Just saying the name of her gorgeous, gorgeous perfect baby makes her heart break. “I dreamt of her. She was my dream.” God, she remembers. She remembers feeling so lost and then feeling fulfilled with her new purpose: her baby. Getting her back, making a family. And then came the crushing reality that her time… her chance… it had passed. “And then she wasn’t… And who am I, Santana, if I’m not her mother?” She knows Santana doesn’t have the answer, but neither does Quinn. And it’s terrifying. “I gave birth to her. I love her like she’s mine. But she calls another woman Mommy, she doesn’t even really know me.” The tears come. She can’t stop them. She can barely breathe. “How can I feel like a mother, grieve like a mother, LOVE like a mother? And not be one?” The laughter that falls out of her lips feels twisted and sordid. “How do you go back to a simple college dream after that? How are you…” Her voice cracks, the tears glisten, and Quinn can’t find it in herself to care. “God, how are you even whole?”

The arms that encircle her grow tighter still. “Fuck, Quinn,” she hears, and then her eyes close tight as Santana keeps her close, twisted Quinn’s suddenly pliant body in her arms until Santana’s fingers are caressing her brow with a lover’s touch.

She doesn’t fix her. Quinn knows now that another person can’t fix a broken person. But somehow, Santana and her fierce embrace, the lips that drift desperately against her cheek and then bury into her mouth… they keep her together.

*********

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Quinn’s head now rests against Santana’s chest. The tears and her emotion have passed. What’s left is almost a peace, because the tears have been released, the fears have been admitted and Quinn is still here.

She’s alive. She can feel. Her eyes flutter with the sensation of Santana’s fingers threading through her scalp, sweet and soft combs that make her sigh against the bronze skin.

Santana voice is thick… raspy. “Two months ago, you were calling me a scared little girl and accusing me of being jealous of you and slapping me across the face…” There’s laughter in Santana’s delivery, but Quinn doesn’t know how to find it funny. She regrets it. She doesn’t even remember who that person was.

“Two months ago, I considered Brittany Pierce to be my best friend and the love of my life. I seriously thought we would end up together.” Quinn can hear Santana’s heartbeat, pit-pats that drum against Santana’s breast against her ear. She spreads her palm against Santana’s stomach, and wills herself to just listen.

“Two months ago, I had a scholarship and a career, and a life that wasn’t what I wanted, but it was mine…”

Quinn swallows, shifts her head and glances up at the gorgeous woman who seems to be staring off at some unseen memory.

“And now, it’s two months later, just two months, Quinn.” Those dark eyes swivel and focus on her. “But I’m in New York, and you’re my best friend and we're...” she trails off, obviously unsure how to word it. With no heart to pressure, Quinn only presses a kiss to the side of Santana’s breast reassuringly and allows her to continue. The fingers skimming her bangs pause momentarily. “Brittany is like a stranger to me… she’s living in what may as well be a different world, and I… I'm ...I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do with my life. I don’t know what my dream is.”

It seems that reality has started to settle with Santana Lopez. It’s her turn to be broken. It’s Quinn’s turn to keep her whole.

So she lifts, and with a lover’s touch reaches out to cup Santana’s chin, turning that focus back on her. “You’re on your way,” she whispers, gentle and firm. “You’ve already started to figure things out, okay? Right now, you have a place to live. You have New York.”

Santana presses her lips together. It seems small comfort, but she does seem truly grateful as she nods quickly. “And you have Yale,” she adds, like Quinn needs a point in her column too.

Quinn smiles, because it’s sweet. “I have Yale,” she says agreeable.

Santana stares at her, a burning look. “And you have me.”

She’s sincere. She means it, because Santana Lopez is this lovestruck, loyal little thing and it’s so easy to promise that when Brittany lives in a different world, where Mayan calendars mean the world is ending and there’s nothing bigger than a high school classroom.

“Santana.”

“Please tell me that I have you too, Quinn.”

She does. She owns Quinn, body and soul. It’s an absolute truth that Quinn will never admit to her.

Santana is on a precipice, and there’s no telling where she will land. They are lost souls, and tethering themselves to each other will just set them both adrift.

There is no room for possession or devotion. Not now.

She can’t stop her eyes from watering, but she does try to keep her voice as calm and steady as she can when she says, “Maybe we shouldn’t make any promises that we’re not sure we can keep.”

Any argument Santana wants to give her is silenced when Quinn cushions her mouth against her, hoping that what she can’t say with words, she can say with her actions.

*********

She can’t stop kissing Santana. The trigger has been pulled and Quinn is now an addict. Swollen lips, chapped dry from friction and saliva, taste like heaven, and Quinn feels her chest tighten with every whispered sigh, every murmur against her mouth.

She feels reborn. It’s impossible, because Quinn has sworn she’s been in love before. She’s felt infatuation, at the very least. She remembers the twisted feeling inside of her when Puck tickled strings on his guitar. She remembers the crushing heartbreak she felt when Sam Evans walked away from her. She remembers the pure fury that broke her when Finn Hudson decided a funeral was the perfect time to break up her.

And yet here is her best friend, in her arms, in her bed, threading fingers through her hair and smiling her with coal black eyes and nude, feminine lips, and Quinn can’t remember a moment in time where she’s ever been so overcome.

That city is darkening as the early morning moves on. It’s just past the witching hour, and Quinn knows her eyes are growing as heavy as her heart, but she doesn’t want to sleep. The dread… the fear… she knows it’s coming, and time is their enemy.

This feels the like beginning to the rest of her life, and it’s not. It’s a respite, a rest stop on a bumbling journey that they’re both taking alone.

Maybe Santana feels it too. She looks at Quinn like she’s her very world. She looks at Quinn like she loves her.

She kisses Quinn with a tenderness that breaks her, and whispers words of affection and want against Quinn’s skin, cementing them with her mouth and fingers.

There’s no way that this, whatever this is, isn’t mutual. Quinn lives to sabotage herself, but in this bubble of a room, Santana has done more than proven her sentiments.

“Please tell me you’re not going back to him,” Santana whispers against her mouth.

She wants reassurance. Santana is frightened, and God, it’s so hard not to feel it too. The coming dawn brings with it every uncertainty, and God, they both have so much to be afraid of.

Quinn thumbs across Santana’s gorgeous mouth, addicted and in love. “No,” she admits, because she can’t ever imagine herself in David’s arms. Not now. Not after this. She wants no one but Santana. “But who’s to say you won’t go back to Brittany?”

A hard swallow, coupled with an annoyed blinks, is her girl’s response. “Brittany isn’t a choice, Quinn.”

Can Santana really be that deliberately obtuse? This woman, who claimed Brittany as a soul mate… God, doesn’t she remember Brittany doing the exact same thing? Doesn’t she remember that Brittany is the one who wanted her to stay in her own world with her?

“You and I both know that’s not true, Santana.”

Santana whines… actually WHINES, like a petulant puppy, eyes shutting tight in her annoyance. Her forehead tips forward, until she’s connected against Quinn’s brow, breathing her in. “I don’t want to talk about Brittany,” she pleads, with a desperation that threatens to unhinge Quinn. “Not here. Not with you.”

But dawn is coming, and there’s only so long they can stave it off. “Santana.”

And those haunting lips are on her again, slicking across her mouth and rebranding her with their passion. Quinn moans against her own weakness, answering Santana’s kiss with a hungry embrace of her own. She’s betrayed by her own body, her swelling emotion.

“I’m not thinking about Brittany right now, Quinn,” she hears, a fervent promise against her lips. “I’m thinking about you.” Quinn sucks in a sob. Her eyes shut tight, but the words… the words continue. “And when you leave on that bus to New Haven, it’s you I’m going to miss. It’s you I’m going to think about. It’s you that I want… “

“No promises, “she pleads, because Quinn can’t handle a broken promise. She can’t handle the hope. There’ll be nothing left of her if she’s broken again.

“No promises, I know,” Santana sighs, and nods, keeping Quinn in tightly against her. Her lips cover Quinn’s again, a passionate kiss that bleeds so many unspoken promises, Quinn is overtaken.

*********

Santana falls asleep as morning drifts through the windows. Quinn watches as her breath goes even, arm slung around Quinn’s waist, breath tufting against her collar. Quinn battles her own exhaustion. She traces Santana’s cheek with adoration, and in the safety of Santana’s sleep, she finds her own unspoken truth.

“I love you,” she manages, soft and fragile. “You’re my dream.”

Her sleeping lover has no response.

That’s okay.

It’s enough for now.

Day breaks, and Quinn closes her eyes, letting slumber take her.

In Santana’s arms, she lets herself dream.


	13. I Know That We Can't Do This No More

On January 2nd, old snow blankets New Haven in a way that’s almost a little bit disgusting. It’s a grey sky morning and the wet snow has begun to melt into icy sludge. The track of tires and general tread of boots has made it both muddy and icy. Quinn knows that her college town is usually beautiful during the winter, but as she makes her way toward the dorm, she can’t help but think it looks nothing but lonely and dirty. 

By the time she swipes her key card in the slot of her dorm room door and waits impatiently for the light to click green, she’s near limping with effort. Her lower back stings thanks to the long uncomfortable train ride, and though her suit case has a roller, the long walk back has taken its toll. 

She’s exhausted, and the empty, gnawing ache that hollows into her chest and has kept her on the verge of tears since the train pulled away from New York does not help. 

Santana insisted on taking her to the train station alone. She held her hand the entire way, and when Quinn had to go, there were tears in those deep, soulful eyes. Thinking back on it now, Quinn wonders if maybe they looked a little ridiculous, clinging to each other like she was going to the opposite end of the earth, instead of just a two hour journey back to Yale. 

But Santana’s scared. Quinn knows she is, and Quinn’s scared too. There’s nothing more frightening than uncertainty. 

When Santana slipped her fingers underneath her jacket and held her close, Quinn allowed it, exhaling a painful whisper as she tilted her forehead against Santana’s, breathing the other woman in. She almost confessed herself. In her last minute panic and weakness, Quinn almost told Santana everything. How she loved her so desperately, how much she wanted to not be so afraid that Santana’s affection was only temporary, just a drugged side effect of a magical New Year’s evening. How she wished more than anything that she could be SURE of her, because it had been so long since Quinn had wanted anything as much as she wants Santana, and how it terrified her because she wants her this much and still loves her so much that Quinn would leave her behind so Santana can find herself. 

Her mouth opened for the words to spill out, but Santana herself was the one who stopped her. Santana, who rubbed her knuckles softly against her cheek before her mouth fit so sweetly against hers, kissing her with such tenderness, Quinn could nearly feel her soul shatter. 

It makes her feel so young, but Quinn honestly just wants to get into her dorm room, flop down on her stupid bed and cry herself to sleep. 

She won’t be granted even that, however, because the minute her door opens, she catches sight of Tabitha, her studious, slightly chubby, oddly pretty roommate, who arches her back and stares at Quinn as she makes her way inside. 

“Quinn,” she says, like it’s a surprise. “Happy New Year.” 

It’s silly, how formal they still are after even a semester of living together. Well, almost living together. Tabitha tends to sleep at the library thanks to a challenging science curriculum, and Quinn knows next to nothing about her except that she’s on scholarship and has a large family, thanks to the pictures that Tabitha keeps pinned on the corkboard by her bed. They seem close. Nice. Quinn has often looked at the picture in Tabitha’s absence and studied the picture. Those similar beautiful brown complexions on round faces, with smiling white teeth and the same big brown eyes, seem to almost mock her and her own fragmented excuse for a family. She always feels a pang of bittersweet longing if she lingers too long. 

So she doesn’t. 

“Happy New Year,” she mutters, and drops the handle to her luggage. This is about the time she expects Tabitha to go back to her desk, blocking out the world with the R&B music that she likes to blast out of her headphones. 

Tabitha instead disappoints her by staying still, eyes on Quinn as she sheds her cold and wet layers. “How was New York?” 

It’s a struggle not to revert to ‘bitch’ and snap something acerbic in reply. Quinn is tired and in pain. She’s not in the mood for awkward small talk, especially with Tabitha, who has seemed to have no interest in her at all for the nearly three months they’ve known each other. Still, Tabitha is distant and formal but never MEAN, which is more than Quinn can say for some of their other dorm companions, and so Quinn settles on her bed with an ill-disguised groan and answers as politely as she can. “It was okay.” Tabitha just continues to look at her, and Quinn finds herself oddly compelled to continue the conversation. “How was…New Haven?” 

Her roommate flushes, clicking her pen and shuffling in her seat. “The same. You know me, I don’t really…” For once, Tabitha actually seems embarrassed by her lack of the party girl lifestyle, and opts instead to change the subject. “That German girl stopped by and wondered where you went.” 

It takes a few minutes for Quinn’s sluggish mind to connect the dots. “Nina,” she offers, and Tabitha nods. “Okay,” she answers, and sighs with sudden guilt. She has to admit that the week together in New Haven has pushed Nina from a friendly acquaintance to an actual friend. She maybe should have told her where she had gone. “Kay, thanks. I’ll call her.” 

“Professor Sussman stopped by too.” 

The chill that runs down Quinn’s spine is nothing like the thrill that would produce those telling goosebumps on her skin just a month ago. God, maybe even a few weeks ago. 

“David,” she breathes, before she can help it. 

The polite mask on Tabitha slips for a bit, and there, Quinn can see her judgment. “Yeah,” she says, chuckling a bit meanly. “ _David_.” 

Quinn’s nausea is very real, and there’s no energy to spare to worry about Tabitha’s view on the matter of her affair with her psychology professor. She shuts her eyes and sinks down on her bed, trying desperately to keep the broken sob that wants to bubble up from her twisted insides from spilling out. 

The faded music of Tabitha’s strong headphones drill into her brain. From this distance, all she can hear is the bass, the thump-thump-thump that seems to accelerate her heartbeat and give her the shivers. 

God, she’s back to this. This is her reality. No Santana, no real friends. Just a roommate who secretly thinks she’s a blonde bimbo slut and a secret affair with a professor who doesn’t know how to take a hint and that isn’t really all that secret after all. 

“So are you, like, sleeping with all of them now?” Quinn’s eyes jolt open. Tabitha’s brow is lifted, a smirk meanly twisting on her upper lip. “Do they know about Santana?” 

She’s so stunned by the blatant apathy, she’s actually gutted. “Tabitha, I don’t…” 

“’Cause I mean, I knew drama majors were supposed to be dramatic or whatever, but…” 

God. She’s a joke to her. 

A year ago, six months ago even, Quinn would have taken a look at this obviously plain girl and dismantled her with a sneer and a well-placed insult. 

But she’s not ready. She’s too tired, too hollow, too lonely to paint on that bitch face and fire back. And those sobs that she’s tried so hard to keep from spilling just flush right past her barriers, until her entire body is given over to them. 

“Oh crap, you’re crying.” 

Dimly, she feels awkward pats on her shoulders, the shifting weight of her bed that tells her that Tabitha is now seated right next to her. She can’t bring herself to care. The crippled sobs just continue, making her already exhausted body that much more feeble. 

“Oh, God, Quinn, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that!” 

Seriously, how many ways can someone even mean that? And she needs this. She’s been sucking in this sorrow for so long. It comes out of her like a torrent of bad emotion, soaking her pillow. 

The tears seem to never run out, until suddenly they do. Though her head hurts and her eyes sting, Quinn discovers awareness returning after a moment of harsh inhalations. Only then, does she feel the dim pressure of Tabitha pressing tissues in her palms. 

At the very least, the tears have also given Quinn some sort of cathartic release. The emptiness is still there, but the pressure feels lighter somehow. 

“I’m really sorry, Quinn.” The girl looks genuinely upset as she mangles her hands together and stares worriedly down at Quinn. 

She takes the crumpled tissue and tries to valiantly wipe her eyes. 

“I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” she mumbles, miserable and annoyed. “Just Santana.” 

“Oh.” Quinn rolls her eyes at the awkward tone, and stays on her side, shifting so her face is no longer on the damp spot on her pillow. “So… she’s your girlfriend then.” 

Quinn’s laughter is bitter and short. “No. It’s complicated.” 

“Oh,” Tabitha says again, and out of the corner of her eye, Quinn can see her actually wincing. “I’m really sorry, Quinn. I didn’t mean to make you cry…“ Quinn fixes her gaze evenly on her, and Tabitha flinches. “I was trying to be funny or whatever.” 

That’s… new. She doesn’t know much of her roommate, but the spurts she hears in phone conversations or SKYPE calls tells her that the girl does tend to have some sort of dry, awkward sense of humor for the people she considers friends or family. It’s never been directed at her. 

“Why?” 

Tabitha avidly mangles the tissue box in her hand, scrunching down at the cardboard until it dents. “I dunno… We’re roommates.” She looks almost scared as she adds, “It’d be nice to be friends, I think.” 

Quinn’s confused. Tabitha’s clearly nervous, and though she’s got darker skin, the way her cheeks actually flush makes it clear that this is actually taking effort. 

Tabitha’s trying to befriend her. 

Why? 

“I thought acting majors were all dramatic freaks to you,” she says, but the dry nature of the retort is lost by the weak, raspy quality of Quinn’s voice, a side effect of her weeping. 

“Yeah but you’re pretty smart for a drama major,” Tabitha spits, and then winces and tries again. “I mean, I see the books you read.” The expressionless, studious stare Quinn gives her must trip her up even more because Tabitha suddenly sinks into herself. “Okay honestly? My boyfriend dumped me over the winter break,” she admits after a moment. “He’s this big football player at Fresno State, and he promised we were going to make the distance work but over Christmas…” Tabitha licks her lips, shakes her head morosely. “He said we were growing apart and the relationship was starting to become a ‘hassle’. I don’t even know what that means.” 

It’s a shitty thing to happen at Christmas. And completely unsurprising. Quinn remembers quite vividly Puck telling her more than once that her pregnancy ‘fat’ was really cramping his style. “I’m sorry,” she manages, as sincerely as she can. “That sucks.” 

But Tabitha actually beams. “You see? That’s all I wanted!” she snaps, shoving an excited finger at Quinn. “That’s it! But like, every ‘friend’ I tried to talk to about it here told me to just grow up and that I’m better off without him and yeah, I _know_ I am,” she admits, and sighs. “But sometimes I just want someone to like… let me cry. Feel sorry for myself.” 

“Fall onto your bed and sob your heart out?” Quinn asks knowingly. 

Tabitha’s smile trembles. “Exactly.” Quinn bites her lip and nods. She reaches quietly for the tissue box, which Tabitha is only too happy to hand over. “I’m glad we’re finally talking. I’ve always liked you Quinn, but you’re… you know you’re kind of intimidating, right?” 

That is the single silliest thing Quinn’s heard all semester. “You’re crazy.” 

Tabitha just stares at her like she’s stupid. “Look, you’re like, movie star gorgeous. It’s not fair how pretty you are. You even CRY pretty.” Quinn blinks, unsure if she should be offended or not. “The way guys look at you… you’ve got a hot professor panting after you, and … I mean I didn’t spend a lot of time with Santana, but she was … I mean wow…, and I’m just… I’m just me.” Tabitha plucks at her Yale t-shirt, as if demonstrating her point. She looks the picture of an insecure girl, frowning at her general state. Just the sight of it brings back so many memories of Lucy, Quinn’s breath catches. “Jeff was first guy who really liked me.” 

It’s easy to see Tabitha now. The dark eyes brimming with sadness, the twitch of her full mouth that shapes a pout, the messy braid. Quinn has to admit that before now, she’s never looked twice. Never once tried to be more than just a distant roommate to a girl who may as well have been her in middle school, insecure in her looks and buried in her books. 

God… sometimes she can’t even help the bitch inside of herself.

She’s like the Hulk. 

With a soft, tender touch, Quinn reaches over and presses a hand to Tabitha’s wrist, knocking the other girl out of her thoughts. “There’s a lot to like,” Quinn decides. 

Tabitha’s smile is sweet and sincere. “… I guess I realized that if I got over myself that maybe I would have had someone to talk to.” 

It’s a sweet overture of friendship, despite the way the relationship started. Quinn’s smile is immediate and grateful. “I think I’d like that too.” 

Tabitha’s face lights up, and it’s sweet, until Quinn realizes that they’re just staring each other awkwardly and she has no strength to figure out how to even begin navigating the next step.

Thankfully, Tabitha takes the lead. “So… wanna watch some anime and eat some popcorn and like… be actual roommates?”

Oh God, her roommate may actually be a dork. 

Quinn’s smile wavers. “… I’m not completely sold on the anime,” she hems, “but I’m open.” 

Maybe it’s not crumpling into her bed and sobbing away the rest of her night, but Quinn figures that at the moment, it’s the more appealing option. 

\--

That’s how she becomes engrossed in a really dark and gritty anime series called ‘Blue Exorcist’ that streams on a website called CrunchyRoll that Quinn never knew existed. The series is surprisingly gripping and also absolutely terrifying. Quinn’s pretty certain this whole thing is going to give her plenty of demon-themed nightmares and she feels like a bad Christian even watching it.

That doesn’t mean she stops. 

When her phone buzzes, it’s a much needed distraction from the actual horror carrying on the screen. 

Currently, Tabitha is so absorbed in laughing at the completely horrified look on Nina’s face (she joined them a while ago and was only too happy to devote an evening to anime, which Quinn guesses makes them all dorks), as she watches the graphic anime that it’s easy for Quinn to unlock her phone and glance at the text. 

_You never called._

Santana. The catch of her breath is almost obscene, and Quinn has to resist the urge to roll her eyes at herself and her lovesick ridiculousness. 

It’s surprising, actually that she hasn’t. Quinn figured that by now she would be fighting herself not to call Santana immediately and beg for reassurance, take every promise back and just claim Santana out of actual fear that she would never get the chance. 

Falling on a bed and sobbing and striking up an unexpected friendship with her roommate has it’s upsides, apparently. 

_Sorry._ She texts back. _I got back and had a snippy roommate to deal with. But I’m back at the dorms and I’m safe._

Tabitha offers her a curious look, but Quinn thankfully only has to mouth the word ‘Santana’ before Tabitha’s eyes widen and she nods knowingly. 

Quinn’s phone buzzes again. _Snippy roommate?! Do I need to come up there and kick some Tabitha ass?_

It’s difficult the mask the stupid smile that lilts onto her face at the protective comment. _Stand down, She-Ra. We talked it out and I think we may be actual friends now._

_Oh. Well good. Call me later. It’s sucks how much I miss you._

It seems so easy for Santana to type that, and as the words just blink at her, little black squiggles of text, Quinn can’t help but marvel at how far they’ve come. 

_I miss you too._ She takes her time, sounding out the words in her head as she types the reply. 

__Tabitha’s shoulder shifts against hers. “So what kind of perfume does that Santana use? I’m just saying,” her roommate adds hastily when Quinn lifts her head and stares in befuddlement. “My sheets smelled really good.”_ _

__“You know, I think that’s just how Santana smells.” It’s Nina who answers. Her German friend appears lost in thought, like this is some sort of theory that needs to be puzzled out. When Quinn glances curiously over, the blonde pre-med student flushes and stumbles in her adorable accent, “Not that I went and tried to sniff her or anything!”_ _

__Tabitha hums, and with a narrowed grin, offers as an aside to Quinn, “Well then, lucky you. “_ _

__The warm feeling that suddenly invades Quinn’s belly and stains color on her cheeks as she sits in her dorm room cuddled with actual friends, texting with a beautiful best friend who is also a lover and who seems to misses Quinn as much as she misses her feels suddenly profound._ _

__Perhaps the feeling will not last, but Quinn decides that at this moment, she feels very lucky indeed._ _

__\--_ _

__School begins, and so does a shift in Quinn’s daily regime. Her solitary hours seem to be few and far between, because she now has both Tabitha and Nina as bosom buddies, unafraid and friendly, who call out to her on campus and catch her for lunch and make fun of her silly dramatic monologues that she constantly has to memorize for her drama classes that she first performs for them._ _

__Somehow, even Yale has it’s share of gossip hoarders, because rumor get around that she and Professor Sussman are no longer a thing, and somehow whatever judgment that was passed on her from her peers has now moved on to something that feels disturbingly like both commiseration and pity. And oddly, some respect, because somehow it’s come out that QUINN was the one to call it off, and has since ‘traded up’ to some insanely hot Coyote Ugly (female) dancer in New York._ _

__Tabitha, Quinn learns, has come to quite enjoy being her roommate, because it means that the sorority girls and Communication and Drama majors who are into discussing this sort of thing come to her for confirmation regarding all the rumors and Tabitha, no matter how many times Quinn tells her that Santana is NOT her girlfriend, will only affirm that she is._ _

__“Like hell she’s not,” she pffed at her once day, when Quinn tried once more to define her and Santana’s complicated friendship. “You two text back and forth all day every day, she sent you FLOWERS like two days ago when you got that A for your scene, and don’t think I didn’t see that one time she sent you that naked picture. You have a huge ass phone,” Tabitha points out helpfully when Quinn chokes on her mineral water. “Your screen can be seen from space. Are her boobs real?”_ _

__\--_ _

__So yes, her relationship with Santana continues to be… complicated. And yet not. And yes, Tabitha is right. They text a lot. More than they ever did before. Quinn finds it’s instinctive now to send a few words Santana’s way every morning, and get many in reply. She’s hungry for news, and Santana always has some. She’s settling into her job at Coyote Ugly, and apparently driving Kurt and Rachel crazy, and more importantly, she seems HAPPY._ _

__Somehow, among the dinge and dirt and rudeness of New York, Santana’s admitted she feels alive and at home in a way she never has before._ _

__It’s … validating at the very least._ _

__It does have one complication, however. A happy Santana is an amorous Santana, and currently, the line between friendship and relationship is a blurry one._ _

__Quinn is constantly torn between calling her on it, and like a lovesick fool, begging for more._ _

__It’s what’s floating idly through her mind when she’s studying for another GE quiz in her room._ _

__A much more PG rated picture of Santana (at least in comparison to the one Santana had sent her on a particularly tipsy night after she closed down the bar), pops up on her screen._ _

__Quinn can’t hide the smile that floats on her face as she immediately sets aside her books and reaches out to answer it, thankful for the headphones that keep her hands free. “Hey, stranger.”_ _

__“Tell me again why I decided it would be a good idea to give up my single dorm with its cushy bed and my weekly stipend to come up here to freeze to death on a lumpy couch while I listen to Scooby and Scrappy Doo run scales at six am in the morning?”_ _

__Quinn’s lips press together in amusement. Talking Santana down from her rage ledge has become a routine of sorts. “Because you hated Louisville and New York is part of your dream, and as annoying as they can be, Rachel and Kurt love you as much as you love them?” she answers, like a well-rehearsed speech._ _

__Santana pauses, almost affronted at her lack of concern. “Okay, don’t be putting words in my mouth, Q.”_ _

__Rolling onto her back, Quinn shifts herself into a more comfortable position and allows herself a sweet chuckle. “Santana, I promise I won’t tell that you actually like them a little.”_ _

__“I like you a lot more.” Quinn feels her cheek burn as Santana lets that flirtatiously sink in. “And you better like me way more than Berry.”_ _

__The smug, demanding tone is enough to get a rise out of the competitive Quinn. “What if I don’t?” she asks, determined to be difficult about this._ _

__She expects a teasing snap back. Instead, Santana just answers seriously, “Quinn that’s not funny.” Quinn’s brow furrows in bemusement, until Santana follows that up with a surprisingly vulnerable, “You like me more than her, right?”_ _

__It throws her. Quinn’s smirk fades. “What?”_ _

__There’s a beat; a moment, until Santana exhales loudly. “Can I ask you a question?”_ _

__Quinn nods, until she remembers that she’s talking to someone on the phone and Santana can’t actually see her. “Sure.”_ _

__“Hold on.” She hears shifting and noise on the receiver, like Santana is moving. There’s a clap and a jerk, and suddenly the world where Santana lives comes across as much quieter. “Did you ever kinda… “ There is an aggravated huff and a muttered, “Damn, I can’t believe I’m about to ask this.”_ _

__“Santana…”_ _

__“-Did you ever have a thing for Rachel?”_ _

__“A thing?!” she sputters back, completely thrown by the question._ _

__“Look, I’m not stupid, okay?” Santana snaps. “I have eyes. I remember how you used to look at her in high school.”_ _

__“Because I hated her.”_ _

__“You never hated her,” Santana answers firmly, sounding so damn sure of herself and her opinion. “You were threatened by her and you envied her, but you never hated her.” Quinn’s mouth snaps closed, but she pushes a loud, angry breath out of her nose. She wants to fight Santana on this… she does._ _

__Sometimes she hates that Santana knows her so well._ _

__“And those sketches you drew on the bathroom wall were kinda … scarily accurate.” The fact that Santana even remembers that she used to do that is enough to get the tips of her ears flushing with embarrassment._ _

__“Santana,” she begins, bringing up her fingers to rub at her eyes in frustration. “Where is this even coming from?”_ _

__“She’s pissing me off, okay? Always talking to me like she knows you better than I do. Talking about all your ‘intimate bathroom talks’. What the fuck even IS that?”_ _

__“Please tell me you’re not jealous of my friendship with Rachel,” she begins, because she can’t deal with that. Not now._ _

__God, how terrifying is it that Quinn can’t see anywhere beyond Santana? Why would she even think about Rachel now?_ _

__“Look, it’s not crazy, okay? I mean, we now know that you’re at least kinda into girls and your friendship with her… it’s intense.”_ _

__“Our friendship is intense,” she repeats, determined not to lose her temper to defensiveness._ _

__“And you’ve slapped her,” Santana says, like that means anything at all._ _

__“Just the one time,” she points out frankly, and loses her battle with her temper. “Santana, why the hell does that even matter?”_ _

__A huge sigh rushes from the receiver and makes Quinn wince. “You slapped me before and look where we ended up.”_ _

__“Oh I see,” she muses dryly. “So slapping someone across the face for me is like some kinky form of foreplay?”_ _

__“Quinn, stop.” Somehow, Santana quietly begging is enough to temper the incoming tantrum. Quinn doesn’t know why, or how it does, but… the quiet hesitation, the soft naked vulnerability… Quinn feels her body slump against her mattress and her tension release. Her heart thumps against her chest, and she just... how does Santana showing just a bit of insecurity dismantle her so completely? “Just be honest. You didn’t have sex with me just because you couldn’t have sex with Rachel, right?”_ _

__And there it is. Time and space away from Quinn, and Santana’s doubts have surfaced. Quinn hates how much sense it could make to Santana, who is riddled with so much self-doubt, because she left Brittany with an ‘unofficial break up’, and came back to her ex-girlfriend marrying Sam Evans on the eve of a fake apocalypse._ _

__God, Quinn shouldn’t make comparisons. She shouldn’t. But she wants to. Some part of her really wants to believe that Santana’s scared to lose her that badly, because that means she cares that much._ _

__With a shiver stemmed from pure emotion, Quinn swallows and tries again, gentler and softer. “Santana, I _made love_ to you because I’m insanely attracted to you.” It’s easier, maybe, that she can’t see Santana’s face when she says this. Her heart hammers, and her breath goes uneasy, but Quinn can’t stop the words. “You’re the one that takes my breath away and sets my heart racing. No one else. Not Rachel. Not anyone.” _ _

__She’s not sure how she knows that’s exactly what Santana needed to hear, but Santana proves her instincts right when after a pregnant pause, she whispers almost smugly, “… Yeah?”_ _

__The confident cockiness in Santana’s tone has Quinn’s lips twitching in response. “Mmmhmm,” she responds, and discovers her voice has gone husky at the memory._ _

__God, she’s thought about that night. It haunts her. She thinks about Santana’s mouth, the way her tongue swept across her skin, the pleasured sighs and the feel of Santana inside her…_ _

__The memories will come to her at every moment of every day, whether she’s in class or she’s with friends, or late at night, when she’s awake because Tabitha is snoring._ _

__Each and every time, the reaction is the same. Her body responds the way it did in that hotel room, and Quinn becomes flushed with want._ _

__“I’m insanely attracted to you too, Quinn.”_ _

__Santana’s tone is low… husky. She’s speaking, yes, but not just with words. Quinn knows that Santana is remembering that night._ _

__She’s affected by it too._ _

__Quinn’s chest rises and falls. She finds herself licking her lips to quench a suddenly dry mouth. “Are you?”_ _

__“God, yeah.” God, the way Santana sighs that out? It’s wanton._ _

__Heated, intensely aware of her own body, Quinn finds herself shifting atop her blanket, suddenly restless. Her books forgotten, she wants nothing more than to hear the next words that will come out of Santana’s mouth._ _

__“Know what sucks about living in a loft?”_ _

__She’s so addicted to Santana’s voice. The levels of her tone. Her pitch. How she can go from husky and soft to loud and boisterous. How her voice betrays every emotion, if someone takes the time to know Santana well enough._ _

__Her fingers, almost of their own accord, drift across the patch of skin exposed by her shirt riding up her stomach. The flesh is over-sensitive. It tingles, starved for a touch that isn’t her own. “What?”_ _

__There a moment of anticipation. “That I can’t touch myself every time I get wet thinking about you.”_ _

__Fuck._ _

__Quinn’s eyes flutter. Her mouth presses together and her hips… She can feel the pressure in her core, the ache that began so quietly and now refuses to be ignored. She aches for Santana. She’s wet for Santana._ _

__But… they shouldn’t… she shouldn’t… “Santana,” she breathes, unsure if she’s encouraging or reproaching._ _

__“Is your roommate there, Quinn?”_ _

__Quinn finds herself glancing heatedly toward her roommate’s empty bed. For a moment, she considers lying. Telling Santana that Tabitha is right here, a desperate bid to stick to her own resolve._ _

__But God, would that even stop Santana? Or would she keep going, touching herself to the sound of Quinn’s voice, torturing Quinn with the sound of her own pleasure and taking sadistic delight in the fact that Quinn wouldn’t be able to do anything at all but listen?_ _

__Fuck, why does that sound so amazing?_ _

__Her fingers curl against her stomach, scratching lightly at her heated skin. She’s battling, desperate because her limbs want to betray her. Her body wants relief, because she’s throbbing now, pulsing with all the blood that’s rushed south thanks to her lusty thoughts._ _

__“No…” she answers, shaken into the truth._ _

__“Are you on your bed?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Good. I want you to touch yourself.”_ _

__Her limbs twitch. Her hips buck. Quinn whimpers. “Santana, we shouldn’t-“_ _

__But her digits drift, edging across her flushed, sensitive skin and skimming just underneath the waist of the loose sweatpants she’s slipped on for an afternoon of studying. They ride low on her hips, and she wore them for comfort._ _

__But God, now all she can think of is the fact that it would be so easy… SO easy to do what Santana wants, her deliciously temptress devil that whispers so tantalizingly in her ear._ _

__“I miss how you taste,” she hears, and loses her breath. “I miss how wet you were when I touched you.” Quinn moans, tortured and bewitched, seduced beyond reason. “I miss being inside you.”_ _

__Her muscles flex. Her arm moves. And she’s there, sigh erupting out of her when her fingers slip against the wet front of her panties. It’s no relief, more like a tease, but Quinn’s body arches anyway._ _

__“God, Santana,” she breathes, because she wants her. She wants her so badly. She wants those lips pressed against hers. She wants that body on top of hers. She wants those breasts dragging hard nipples against her own…_ _

__“Do you miss me too?”_ _

__Quinn’s eyes drift open. She glances at the ceiling and clenches her jaw, breathing with open pants. “So much,” she admits._ _

__“Are you wet right now, thinking about me?”_ _

__Quinn’s fingers circle against the fabric, gathering the moisture that seeps through the sodden material. “Mmhmm.”_ _

__Santana gasps in her ear, deliciously pleased. “Touch yourself,” she instructs, and a wordless garble comes out of Quinn’s mouth as she complies, digging a finger against edge of her underwear to slide it out of her way, swipe against that slippery warm flesh that begs for Santana’s touch instead._ _

__“Oh God, Santana.”_ _

__“Use your other hand to play with your breasts.” Quinn’s body arches as she hears Santana’s breathing change, the break in words that tells her Santana is doing the same. God, she wants to see it. She wants to feel it. “Tell me how hard your nipples are. How you wish it was my tongue on them instead of your fingers.”_ _

__Fuck. Quinn’s left breast is now cradled in her free hand, worked underneath her bra to roll her nipple between her fingers, tugging lightly to mimic the suck of Santana’s mouth._ _

__She imagines Santana in New York. Imagines the effect this is having on her. The way Santana’s hips move when she’s lost in passion, tilting into her, sucking her hand in deeper._ _

__Quinn’s fingers quicken, and when hampered by the fabric, Quinn finds herself frustratingly shoving with wet fingers, until both her underwear and her sweatpants have been shifted off her hips and are now stretched around her thighs._ _

__It’s as much as her patience will allow. She’s absurdly relieved at how easy it is now to spread her fingers against her pussy._ _

__“Where are you, Santana?” she asks, low and demanding._ _

__Santana huffs, loud, breathless pants. “In the bathroom,” she edges out, trying desperately to keep quiet. “With the door locked.”_ _

__Quinn’s teeth dig deep into her lip. She pictures that bathroom, and remembers vividly events that transpired between them in that space. “On the counter?”_ _

__Santana hums. “Yeah. Fuck, Q, I’m so wet for you.”_ _

__“I would have fucked you against that counter, Santana,” she whispers._ _

__“ _Fuck_ , Quinn.” _ _

__Quinn’s hands still, twitching against her breast and between her legs as she indulges her own fantasy, an alternate version of their interrupted, marijuana-fueled encounter in Kurt and Rachel’s bathroom. “When I was done sucking on your breasts, I would have slid down that flat stomach of yours and I would have buried my fingers inside you.”_ _

__“Mmm, I can feel it,” she hears, desperate and ragged. “Shit. Quinn, let go, baby. I want to hear you.”_ _

__She does. There’s no logic here. No reason or doubt. She doesn’t care that anyone walking by this dorm can possibly hear her. The only sounds that make any sort of sense are the ones that come out of Santana’s addicting mouth._ _

__“God. Shit.”_ _

__“How many fingers you want in my pussy, Baby?” she hears, and God, that kills her. Her fingers slide inside, hips lifting with her own enthusiasm._ _

__“Two,” she commands, using the same amount for herself. “I want to feel you clench around me.”_ _

__There’s a wordless moan, a pleasure-filled mix of relief and desperation. “God, I miss you.” Santana’s voice is so low. So perfect. Quinn’s eyes clench tight, the ache inside of her coiling with the pressure of her own impending release. She feels every slide of her fingers, the way her own muscles suck her in. She feels those two fingers, and imagines Santana beside her, lips on her neck, pumping in and out of her. “I miss your mouth. I miss the way you taste.”_ _

__“Santana,” she cries, because she has no more words._ _

__“Fuck, baby, I’m close – I’m so –“ So close that Santana comes. Quinn can hear it, the vibration of Santana’s heated cries that ring in her ear, making her dizzy with her own arousal. Her fingers pump furiously. There’s the lewd sound of her wetness squelching with every invasion._ _

__“Santana…”_ _

__“Come baby,” she hears, soft and still so passionate. “Come while you’re thinking about me.”_ _

__She does. It’s never been so easy, but it is now. Quinn abandons her breast to circle her clit with her free hand, rubbing harshly in quick circles. Her muscles clench, her sensitive body responding in a way that pushes her higher and higher until every limp flails and her body nearly levitates off the damn bed._ _

__\--_ _

__“Fuck that was hot, Q.”_ _

__She’s still recovering. Her once comfortable t-shirt now feels damp with her own sweat. Quinn’s right hand smells pungent from the drying moisture on her own fingers._ _

__The orgasm has left her nearly drugged… barely lucid._ _

__And Santana… Santana is still there, nearly laughing with euphoria over what they’ve experienced._ _

__Never… never has it been so hard to tamp down on the words of love that want to come bubbling out of Quinn’s mouth._ _

__And it’s bitter, this reminder of why she can’t confess herself. “Um… we shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers brokenly._ _

__Santana huffs, still breathless. “Don’t,” she warns, firm and frustrated. “Come on. I’m still unclenching, Q.”_ _

__God, just the idea that Santana’s fingers are still inside her…_ _

__“Mmm,” she groans, and tries desperately to shake her logic back into place. “Don’t… FUCK…“ She’s half-naked on a bed after having fucked herself to Santana’s voice and how is it that she wants so desperately to go for a second round? “I’m serious, Santana,” she breathes, and with more restraint she knew she had, scrambles for her pants to tug them back into place. “We need to think about what we’re doing.”_ _

__“Why?” Santana asks, because she’s fucking infuriating._ _

__“Because we need to have rules,” she snaps, annoyed again that she has to be the one to define this. “The point is to figure yourself out, not fall into a relationship with me.”_ _

__A petulant sigh is released. Then, she asks with a hard snap, “Why can’t I do both?”_ _

__How on Earth Santana can undo her so easily is legitimately terrifying. That Santana can bring out the lust in her she’s barely getting used to, but this Santana? Who feels so easily? Who wants her so much?_ _

__God, it MELTS her._ _

__It’s MADDENING._ _

__“I remember why I used to slap you all the time,” she sighs, but finds that those words have no power when there is no anger in them._ _

__Santana seems to sense that at this moment, Quinn has temporarily lost her will to fight, because there is an unafraid chuckle that comes from the stupidly charming brunette. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”_ _

__Quinn, flat on her back, with warmth in her heart and a happiness that she can scarcely belief, just shakes her head at her own weakness._ _

__“You’re just as stubborn as I am.”_ _


	14. You And I Go Hard At Each Other Like We’re Going to War (B)

She’s shuffling her way out of her Intermediate Acting 211 class when she drops her books. A shorter girl with dark hair cropped to her chin and an uncomfortable-looking nose ring leans down and helps her pick up the mess she’s made of her papers, making a joke about ‘this is how romantic comedies usually start out’. 

Shannon’s features are too severe to be considered conventionally pretty, but she’s confident and has a great smile with really white teeth. She’s charming, and Quinn can tell that she’s quite aware of it because it takes less than two minutes of them walking out of the room together before she quite pointedly and really flirtatiously drawls, “So rumor has it that you have a girlfriend now.” 

Quinn’s actually a little surprised that she hasn’t been asked pointblank before. She thinks it’s mostly because there’s been nothing but assumptions that Tabitha’s only been too happy to corroborate. She’s protested more than once, but Quinn has to admit, there’s a quiet thrill that flares inside of her at the general casual, easy acceptance that Santana is her girlfriend. Of COURSE Santana is Quinn’s girlfriend. Of course that ridiculously hot brunette who dances on a bar in cowboy boots and a skin tight tank top who, according to Nina, smells fantastic and sings like sex personified, belongs to Quinn. 

The reality is that she doesn’t. Quinn knows that. But she’s also got a picture taken on New Year’s Eve of her and Rachel and Santana clinging close to each other, half drunk and laughing, as her lock screen. She’s got Santana’s affectionate texts on her phone, and more than one picture of Santana’s gorgeous body tucked away in a secret folder on an app that allows her to hide it with a password. She’s got Santana’s phantom voice whispering in her ear, telling her she would be Quinn’s. That she wants her. 

The thought puts a flush on her cheeks because sometimes the fear that’s kept her from giving in to Santana and telling her they can work on themselves together just seems really really silly. 

Quinn won’t lie, but she’s allowed her moment of weakness, so she doesn’t exactly give the full disclosure either. 

“What would it matter if I did?” she says instead, and then regrets it immediately because it comes off ten times flirtier than she meant it. 

Shannon’s already toothy grin widens. “Oh, it’d matter.” 

She’s told Santana she’s allowed to see other people. She knows Santana gets asked out a lot. Santana complains constantly about the ‘gross guys’ at the bar, and when she doesn’t, Rachel makes it an absolute point to hint to Quinn with texts and emails that Santana is a ‘super femme gorgeous lesbian’ and that’s like finding a ‘unicorn’ for New York’s lesbian, bisexual and curious straight girl community and _someone_ should get over her big Brittany-shaped issues and put a metaphorical girlfriend-ring on it before Santana is snatched up.

Not that Quinn needs the reminder. She sees the Facebook and Instagram photos that Santana’s tagged in, sees the way her new New York ‘friends’ hang all over her. 

But she doesn’t want to be the indecisive, clingy girl. She let Santana go to New York alone for a reason, and honestly, why shouldn’t Santana date? All there’s been is her and Brittany, and God, they’re both so young. Santana should… sow her lesbian oats. Or something. 

Even if the thought is horrifying and enough to make her physically nauseous. 

But every time Quinn brings it up, she gets the same response. “I’m not into that right now, Q,” Santana will tell her flippantly and then steer the conversation in another direction. 

She’s not dating. She’s not fooling around. Foolishly, Quinn wants to think that maybe Santana’s waiting for the moment Quinn erases the line she’s drawn and they cross that forbidden boundary together. 

Despite Shannon’s admirable confidence and perfectly white teeth, she has absolutely no interest in dating anyone but Santana. 

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, as she steps back and makes a point of putting some space between herself and Shannon. “But there is very much someone in my life right now. I’m not available.” 

Shannon straightens back to look at the picture that Quinn shows her, illuminating her lock screen to point out the hot brunette sandwiched between her and Rachel with an arm slung possessively over Quinn’s shoulder and Quinn’s lips on her cheek. 

To her credit, the other woman takes the rejection in stride. “She’s lucky,” she tells Quinn. “No worries. You’re gorgeous. I had to at least try.” Without skipping a beat, she then offers to walk Quinn to the commissary, and like nothing happened, chats about their insane acting professor the entire time.

There’s a lightness in Quinn’s chest that feels oddly like a release, and she wonders seriously, if maybe it’s time to erase that line. 

It’s a big step to contemplate, but … she’s thinking about it. And that’s… amazing. 

It gives her reason to smile and even laugh at Shannon’s impression of their theatrical professor, until the buzzing in her purse distracts her, and she realizes she’s missed a phone call. 

The vibration stops before she can pluck out her phone. It’s not a problem. Rachel immediately calls back without leaving a message. 

She apologizes to her new friend Shannon and waves her on her way as she brings the phone to her ear. 

“Hi Rachel,” she says, with chattering teeth. Now that she’s not walking, the cold has begun to sink in, even underneath her fluffy hat and her three layers of clothes. “Can I call you back when I’m inside?” 

“No,” her friend snaps, because apparently frostbite is not a legitimate concern. “There’s no time. Quinn, we have a Code Red!” 

“A what?” 

“AN EMERGENCY!” 

“An emergency?” she repeats. She’s skeptical, because Rachel’s called her with her so-called emergencies before and usually they involve Santana accidentally (and totally on purpose) flushing her pitch pipe down the toilet, going through all her things without permission (which is a problem, Quinn will admit) or Rachel ranting about Miss Cassandra July’s latest endeavor to torture and undermine her. 

“Yes. We need to talk about Santana. Something’s happened.” 

Quinn’s nearly trips on her own feet. “What happened to Santana?” she chokes out. 

Rachel snorts this angry little huff that sounds like an upset horse neighing that does nothing to calm her down. “Well, okay maybe it’s not a REAL emergency…” 

“Rachel, what happened?“ 

“Just don’t panic,” Rachel begins, but it’s a little fucking late for that right now. 

“WHAT HAPPENED,” she snaps. She can’t stop herself from thinking the worst. She thinks of Santana slipping on a patch of ice and breaking her tail bone. She thinks of Santana pushed off the platform of a subway station and ending up curled on the tracks. She thinks of Santana getting mugged, and making everything worse with her big mouth, getting shot or stabbed or God-

Without thinking, Quinn swivels on her heel and, after a dizzying moment of orienting herself, heads in the direction to the nearest station. 

A frustrated exhalation rushes from the phone into her ear, so harsh it makes her wince. “Brittany called,” Rachel says finally. “I don’t know what she said, but Santana’s gone and taken the first flight back to Lima.” 

Quinn drops her books again, but this time, there is no one to help her gather them back up again. 

\--

Brittany’s Facebook posts reveal nothing. The last post on her feed is an Instagram picture of Sam and Tina in the choir room, making stupid faces. She posted it two hours ago. 

There is no indication that there is an emergency. There is no indication of anything. 

“Quinn, stop panicking,” Rachel had said, which was really fucking difficult after her infuriating friend did her very best to make sure Quinn did just that. “We don’t know anything, so don’t assume anything. She left without telling me anything, but that could be because I yelled at her again for drinking all my soy milk. I’m sure she’ll tell you. I know she will. So just call Santana. That’s all you need to do.” 

God, wouldn’t it be amazing if it were that easy? To just call Santana up and demand answers for daring to go visit her Lima ex? As if she had any right? As if she had any claim on Santana at all? 

She doesn’t. 

She made fucking sure of that when she told Santana over and over again, that they weren’t together. 

And now? God, she’s an idiot. 

The last text she got from Santana was this morning, a picture of her run-in with the Naked Cowboy on E 57th street. Quinn had been in class, and laughed quietly at the picture, and sent just three letters back, a stupid ‘LOL’. 

An hour ago, she was showing a picture of Santana to a girl and on the verge of claiming her as her girlfriend. 

Now, she’s too afraid to even type a message. 

So she sits, like a fool, staring at Brittany’s Facebook page, like looking at the picture of this bubbly, gorgeous blonde friend of hers will provide some sort of answer to whatever the hell she’s feeling. 

A click from behind her distracts her from the monitor, just as her dorm room door swings open. “Okay, here’s the good news,” Tabitha announces, clicking the door shut behind her and shuffling to her bed. “The cute guy who works in the library finally talked to me.” Quinn swallows hard and takes a breath, shifting in her seat as her roommate flops on her mattress and unwinds the scarf from around her head. Tabitha’s cheeks are flushed with cold. She looks bright and chirpily annoyed. “The bad news: it was because I’m printing too much paper, and he felt the need to tell me that I shouldn’t be killing all those trees. He doesn’t know how I study. So he’s a douchebag and I no longer think he’s cute…” The smile that floats on her face dies immediately once she gets a good look at Quinn’s stricken expression. “Who died?” 

Quinn’s face blazes with heat. She feels paralyzed… numb. It’s a terrifying feeling, and brings with is such a rush of déjà vu she’s not sure she can even speak. It takes a moment just to clear her throat, and somehow quietly announce, “Rachel called. Santana’s gone to see her ex-girlfriend in Lima.” 

Tabitha absorbs that, quiet for a moment. “Right,” she says suddenly, oddly frantic as she pulls out her phone. “Okay. Hold that thought.” Quinn blinks, unsure of what to make of it as Tabitha dials and waits for whoever is on the other line to pick up. “Nina? It’s Tab. We have a Code Latin Red.” 

Quinn doesn’t want to ask but… “A Code Latin Red?” 

“It’s our panic code for anything Santana related,” Tabitha whispers, furrowing her brow at Quinn for daring to interrupt her conversation. 

“You guys have Panic Codes?” she asks, almost snide in her incredulousness, wanting to suddenly cry with her angry frustration. “Why does everyone have codes!?” 

“Shut up. Don’t distract me,” Tabitha snaps at her. Apparently what little intimidation Quinn possessed when it came to Tabitha has disappeared. “Yes, we also need Pixie Sticks. Thank you. See you soon.” 

Tabitha hangs up the phone and stares quietly at Quinn. 

Quinn sucks in a deep, painful breath. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a Code Latin Red,” Tabitha informs her gravely. “So sit tight until Nina brings hot chocolate and ice cream and then you’re going to tell us everything.” 

Quinn, with her lead limbs and her mind whirling, has no energy for anything but a dumb nod. “What about the pixie sticks?” she finds herself asking. 

“Those are for me,” Tabitha answers. “I’m out.” 

\--

It’s difficult. Quinn is so used to internalizing her own pain. Confessing herself with words has never come easy for her. In the Fabray household, emotions were never spilled, always kept deep inside. They spilled out in different ways of course: liquor for her mother, rage for her father, Quinn’s absolute need for complete control of her boyfriends and her status at McKinley. 

She’s discovered over the years that that kind of repression doesn’t actually do much of anything other than turn her into a pink-haired skank with rage issues and the tendency to fly off the handle and develop ill-conceived plans like trying to steal back her daughter and attempt to seduce the guy who took her virginity to conceive another baby, forgetting that he had already gone and gotten a vasectomy. 

Quinn knows she’s intelligent, but she admits, sometimes her logic does fail her. 

There’s been moments, however, where friendship has saved her. Mercedes, who opened her home to her and offered her friendship when she felt alone and without a friend in the world. Rachel, who always seemed to see into her in a way that was so tremendously frightening, telling her with so much sincerity that she was the most beautiful girl in the world to her, but also so much more than that. Even Brittany and Santana, her best friends slash frenemies, who held her and listened to her fall apart, as she realized with a terrifying ache that they loved each other more than they would ever love her. 

God they were so young and stupid, to think that a hair cut would fix all of it. 

She runs her hair through her long blonde strands as she finds herself spilling the entire sordid circumstances to a captivated Nina and Tabitha, who sit shoulder to shoulder on Tabitha’s bed, Pixie Sticks hanging from their mouths and half-eaten pints of Rocky Road and Chocolate Chip ice cream melting in their laps. 

She’s not sure what to expect when she finishes, but the two of them staring at her like wide-eyed possums isn’t it. 

“Wow,” Tabitha breathes, sounding jealous of all things. “Your life is so much more dramatic than ours.” The Pixie stick sticks to her lip and she makes a face, pulling it off. “Are all the Theatre Arts majors like this or is it just you?” 

“Is Brittany pretty?” Nina asks, before Quinn can quite process the question. 

Quinn feels herself slumping, caught between being exhausted and oddly amused at this strange conversation. “Yeah,” she admits, thinking about the girl with the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. “Brittany is pretty.” She sucks her cheeks in, and feels her stomach twist as she adds, “She’s an amazing dancer, with legs that go on for miles, and a perfect body.” 

Brittany is perfect without even trying. No plastic surgery, no manufactured name changing. Just lean muscle and a cocky self-confidence that comes from the knowledge that she’s gorgeous and always has been. 

“Hmm.” Tabitha muses, apparently still stuck on her own question. “Maybe it’s not an arts thing. Maybe it’s a hot lesbian thing.” 

“Brittany’s bi,” Quinn snaps, unsure why she feels the need to clarify. “And so am I… I think.” 

Nina’s brow furrows. “But you’re prettier, right?” 

Quinn isn’t sure how that’s at all important. “I … don’t…” A shiver of frustration rolls up her spine and she digs her fingers in her hair. “I haven’t thought about it.” 

“Why haven’t you?” 

“Because one, it doesn’t matter,” she snaps, losing patience for that logic. “She’s who Santana loves, and two, she’s also my best friend.” The words sound sour in her mouth. “Or she was.” 

Quinn remembers high school so vividly now. She thinks back on senior year and the way Brittany would smile her, bright and happy, so strong and full of life, with her full body hugs and the way she told her more than once that she would dance again, and even if she never did, she would always be dancing in her dreams. 

Why was it so easy to forget about THAT Brittany and just think about the one who broke Santana’s heart? Brittany was also the one who lifted her effortlessly from her wheelchair to help her into the tub. She was the one who hugged her hardest when she found out about Yale, and made a joke in her ear about seeing her feel up Santana’s ass. Who told Quinn that she would fight Santana for the right to have Quinn be her maid of honor when she and Santana inevitably got married… 

“The three of you were BFFS?” Tabitha asks, apparently shocked by this news. 

Quinn’s smile is strained. “They called us the Unholy Trinity,” she whispers. 

A rush of air wooshes out of Tabitha’s pouted lips. “See?” she rails at Nina. “She even has cool nicknames. Why don’t we have cool nicknames? There’s three of us!” 

“Because we are nerds,” Nina answers simply, like this is obvious. 

“Nerds can have nicknames.” 

Quinn has no patience for Tabitha’s quirkiness. “Why does it matter?” 

“It should matter,” her friend mutters, apparently choosing to be petulant. 

“Well it doesn’t,” Quinn snaps, biting off the end of her last word. Her cheeks flush; her fingers curl. “Because the only thing that matters here is that Santana and Brittany are never, ever getting over each other… and I’m…” Her eyes sting suddenly with angry tears, and Quinn feels the emotion kick back like a boomerang, settling deep inside of her. “I’m an idiot,” she manages, eyes closing at the realization. 

Her heart throbs so painfully. What’s Santana doing now? Driving to Brittany’s house? Declaring herself once again? 

Wondering what the hell she was thinking, to want Quinn the way she said she did? 

A blonde German settles down quietly next to her. “Quinn, you don’t know that,” Nina says after a moment. 

“I’ve always known that,” she answers simply, because it’s true. She has. And she’s such an idiot for forgetting. 

The tears slip before she’s ready. Quinn wipes at them silently. Beside her, Nina stays quiet. 

“Brittany S. Pierce, that’s her name, right?” 

Quinn lifts her head to discover Tabitha has now moved from the bed to her desk, typing frantically on her computer. 

“What are you doing?” she finds herself asking, suddenly suspicious. 

“I’m googling,” Tabitha says, like it’s obvious. “What do we do when we want to defeat a BOSS in my MMORG? We do recon.” 

Quinn blinks. “Is that English?” 

“Oh look! Pictures!” 

Nina slides off the bed immediately, hunching over Tabitha to stare at the image results. “She’s blonde!” Nina exclaims, sounding much more enthused by that than Quinn would have expected. “Okay, well at least we know Santana has a type,” she adds, shooting Quinn a look that she thinks is supposed to be triumphant. 

Quinn has no idea why on earth being painted as a Brittany 2.0 would be at all consoling at this moment. ““That’s not helpful!” 

“Quinn, you’re totally prettier.” Tabitha says matter-of-factly. 

Oddly resigned, Quinn just rolls her eyes, determined not to be pleased by her friend’s petty summation. “I think you’re biased.” 

“… there’s a sex tape?!” Nina squeals. “Santana has a sex tape?” 

Oh God-dammit, the sex tape. Quinn stiffens so quickly her back spasms with an angry rush of pain. 

“Guys,” she tries, scooting forward. 

“Can we watch it?” God, the way Tabitha asks that, it’s like she asked to go to friggin Disneyland. “I’m clicking!” she decides, before Quinn can actually say no. 

Immediately there’s what is now a VERY familiar sound of Santana moaning, and Quinn finds herself flushing desperately, swiveling on her heel to turn her back toward the screen. 

She’s tried to watch that tape exactly once, and Quinn couldn’t get through it. At the time, it was morbid curiosity that was beaten back by the knowledge that Santana was mortified of its existence, despite the fact that Brittany was damn proud. 

But now… God, now the last thing she wants is a visual example of what Santana and Brittany look like when they’re-

_”Oh, FUCK Brittany.”_

“FUCK,” Quinn snaps, eyes scrunching shut. God, no. She doesn’t… “Can we please shut that off?” she asks. 

“ … oh my God, Santana has abs,” she hears Nina say. 

“Quinn, why is there a cat here?” Tabitha asks. 

There’s a snort, and then Nina adds in her stupid accent, “It’s full of pussy.” 

And that’s enough. This is just… No. These are the worst fucking friends in the entire world. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps, whirling so quickly that Tabitha actually jumps in her seat. “Do you think this is helping me?! Newsflash! It’s not! Watching the woman I’m in love with fucking her ex-girlfriend IS NOT HELPING ME RIGHT NOW.” 

She’s sure she looks furious. She is. Her face is flushed, and her muscles tremble. Her heart beats rapidly with the fury but GOD-DAMMIT-

“Oh God, wow, we suck.” 

On the verge of laughing hysterically, Quinn loses her strength and slumps back down on her bed. “Yeah,” she admits. “You both suck.” 

“We’re sorry,” Tabitha says immediately, as she slaps the laptop down, closing it. “We’ll be better.” 

Quinn rolls her eyes, but when Nina gingerly settles down beside her, she doesn’t resist the warm hand on her back. 

“Let’s get back on track,” she hears. “Santana has gone back to see Brittany, and you’re worried.” 

A painful lump sticks in the back of Quinn’s throat. “That would be an understatement.” 

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” her friend says, calm and reasonable. “Maybe it’s a real emergency. They were best friends before they were girlfriends, right?” 

Quinn exhales slowly and does her best to answer the question. “Sorta,” she admits, and smiles bitterly, because before Brittany, QUINN was Santana’s best friend. “I mean yes, but there was always some…” It was different in high school, when Brittany showed up. She remembers the way Santana stared at Brittany, demanded she be their third. Remembers the looks they shared behind her back and the way they began to wander off together at parties. That horrible helpless feeling that she didn’t know what to do with when she realized that Santana was drifting away. “They got physical very fast.” 

“Faster than you and Santana did.” 

Quinn laughs at Tabitha helplessly. “It wasn’t like that with me and Santana.” 

“Oh.” Still seated in her chair, Tabitha looks soft and contrite. “Okay, so what do you want to do?” 

It’s such a simple question. 

Quinn has no idea how to answer it. 

“I want to call her,” she finally exhales, chewing on her cheek. “I want to freak out. I want to yell and scream and I want to make sure Brittany is okay, but God, I want Santana to call me and tell me that I’m crazy for thinking that this means she’s going back to her.” Her mouth pulls into a rueful, tired smile. “I want to believe that she wouldn’t just take off to Lima to be with Brittany the moment she calls her after everything we’ve been through. I want to call her and tell her I love her and I want to hear that she loves me too.” 

“But you’re not going to do that.” Nina’s look is piercing. 

Quinn’s never felt so helpless. “She knows how I feel about her and Brittany.” How could she not? There was that whispered conversation on New Year’s Eve… the way Santana begged her not to go back to David… the way Quinn told her there was no guarantee she wouldn’t go back to Brittany and the way Santana had so desperately tried to assure her that she was who she wanted… 

“If she really cared, wouldn’t she have called me?” she asks, eyes glistening as she glances up at her two friends, searching for an answer, a contradiction… anything. “If she didn’t want me to get the wrong idea?” 

But Tabitha and Nina don’t know Santana. Not really. They can’t offer her any reassurance. Not even Rachel can, because no one knows what’s going through Santana’s head but Santana herself.

And Santana is in Lima with Brittany. 

“So, instead you’re thinking the wrong idea is … the right idea.” 

Quinn bites her lower lip to stop herself from snapping something incredibly mean at the obvious statement. “Yes, Tabitha,” she manages snippily. “That is what I’m thinking.” 

“You need to call her,” Nina says, like it’s that simple. 

Quinn knows. She knows that that’s all it would take. A phone call. A question. Quinn would get her answer, because Santana has always been honest with her. As honest as she can be. 

But… 

“I can’t,” she admits, laughing at her own inadequacy, feeling so, so stupid. “What if I’m right? What if she tells me she wants Brittany? God I just... I feel like I’d rather not know.” 

It’s an impossible situation. It’s stupid. It’s everything Quinn’s always been afraid, and God, how dumb is she? She KNEW that this would happen. There was even a phantom Brittany in her ear, telling her not to entertain anything, that Santana would always want HER. 

Why is Quinn always falling for people who will never love her the most? 

“Okay, you know what? We can’t fix this.” Quinn blinks, thrown out of her thoughts as Tabitha shoots off her chair and grabs hold of her ice cream. “But we CAN distract you. So what we’re going to do, is go get hammered. That’s what college kids do right? We go get drunk?” 

Tabitha looks oddly unsure. She’s staring at both Quinn and Nina for some sort of validation. “What?” 

“When Jeff broke up with me all I wanted to do was get drunk,” she announces. “I’ve never been super drunk. And there’s a party that the Pre-Med kids in my Anatomy class are throwing down the street. We should go.” 

“No one parties like the Med Kids party,” Nina says reasonably, like this is well known information. “It’s a good stress release.” 

A party. They want to go to a party. Utterly dumbfounded, Quinn can only blink stupidly at her friends as the idea sinks in. “You want to get drunk?” she asks, making sure there’s no mistake. “Now?” 

Nina smiles, but it’s Tabitha who comes forward and settles on the other side of Quinn, taking Quinn’s pale hand in her own. Quinn’s struck by the contrast of the shades of skin. 

It’s odd, that that’s what she’s focusing on. But the beautiful tint on Tabitha’s skin is just a few shades darker than Santana’s.

Quinn’s heart pulses. Why does it always come back to Santana?

“Look, Quinn no matter what,” Tabitha says, squeezing tight. “You’re gonna feel like shit. So let us be friends, and take you out.” 

“Yes!” Nina squeals, clapping her hands like a seal. “We will put this all away, repress it, get drunk, and make some really bad decisions!” 

“That is terrible advice,” Quinn notes with a helpless amusement. 

It sounds SO appealing. 

“I’ve only had one boyfriend, and she’s German,” Tabitha quips. “What do you expect?” 

And it’s odd, because for once, Quinn has no expectations. What she has are two odd friends who flank her with their own special brand of concern, offering her a night to forget about Santana, about her heart being on the verge of breaking… about all of it. 

With Quinn’s phone on silent, and the ringing sounds of Santana and Brittany’s sex tape in her ears, Quinn decides there’s absolutely no reason to say no. 

\--

When her morning alarm blares, cutting into her brain and searing into her with the pain of a thousand tiny blades slicing across her temple, Quinn discovers there was absolutely every reason to say no. 

Namely, that she’s completely forgotten what a terrible hangover feels like. 

Dragged from her blacked-out slumber, Quinn curls herself into a fetal position, sluggish and weighted with sleepy exhaustion. She’s disoriented, unsure even of where she is until she manages to creak her crusty eyes open and discovers that she has in fact somehow managed to land back in her own bad. 

Her relief is short-lived, because the alarm on her phone just blares on. Each bleat feels like another ice pick digging into her scalp. 

A hangover is nothing new. Quinn is quite the Christian, but she was also a Skank, and during those days, getting wasted was almost a weekly occurrence (It would have been nightly, but even as a rage-induced gangster, Quinn had limits when it came to its interference with her education). 

But God, she’s always hated them. And for such good reason. 

The nausea is possibly worse than the headache. The terrible taste in her mouth tells Quinn that she must have vomited at some point over the evening, but for the life of her she can’t even remember how the hell she even got home. 

Oh God, what if she threw up on her own bed? 

And that damn alarm just keeps blaring. 

Forced into movement, it takes three tries to even come close to successfully shutting off the alarm, and even then she only manages a snooze before the phone tumbles off her desk and loses itself somewhere on her covers. 

After a second or two of blindly fumbling for it, Quinn gives up, grateful for the brief reprieve of silence. 

Somehow becoming just a tiny bit more alert, Quinn does her best to open her eyes, before she shuts them again immediately when the sunlight streaming from the window blazes into her pupils like a laser pointer. 

Augh. Why on Earth did she think this was going to be a good idea? How the hell did she let her stupid roommate talk her into this? 

Where the hell IS Tabitha? With a sucked in breath, Quinn does her best to squint her eyes open and glare at Tabitha’s side of the room. 

The bed is empty. Where the hell-

Oh. Quinn closes her eyes and recalls dimly that at some point she caught Tabitha nearly humping some skinny guy in a corner, taking a brief break only to tell Quinn not to wait up for her. 

Right. 

It takes every bit of energy she has to roll onto her back. 

With a deep breath in, Quinn manages to keep her eyes open this time. Her gaze locked on the blank ceiling, she does her best to suck in deep breathes, get past the absolutely rank taste in her mouth, and orient herself properly. 

It’s absolutely terrifying that she can’t remember how she got in her bed. God, she can barely remember anything. 

She tries. Quinn really tries, because this was stupid. This was really really stupid. She remembers Tabitha and Nina by her side. She remembers the need to forget coupled with the support of her friends outweighing her usual need to remain totally in control. 

It takes concentration, but she does begin to remember the house party of crazy med students. She remembers liquor. Lots and lots of liquor.

She remembers laughing and dancing with Nina and Tabitha, and introductions to other Pre-Med students who heard she was in Glee club and then she remembers drunkenly singing the chorus “Magic” by B.O.B while Tabitha rapped the verses surprisingly well. 

There was a group of girls… one in particular… a brunette with big brown eyes and olive-toned skin... 

_“Hey Quinn! Vanessa wants to know what it’s like to kiss a girl!”_

… oh God.

Quinn’s eyes widen in horror. The memories come in flashes now. A smile. The taste of the girl’s tongue against her lips. The ‘this is going on Facebook!’ comment. The drunken laughter as she pulled away to go dance in the crowd with Nina. She remembers coming home alone now. Crashing on her bed. But… 

_”This is going on Facebook!”_

Oh God, no no no-

With her heart pounding, Quinn fumbles for her phone, nearly flinging it off her bed when she lifts the bedspread to locate it. When she has it, it takes a second to push past her nausea and raging headache to properly focus on the screen. 

There’s two missed calls, both made late last night. Both are from Santana. 

Oh… God. 

With shaking fingers, Quinn clears the screen and stares at her notifications. 

_John Vinson tagged you in a post, “Showing them all how it’s done!”_

And… crap. It’s there, on her wall. A very bright and clear image of Quinn’s lips mashed against some girl she can barely remember except for her vague resemblance to Santana, a favor she was encouraged to dole out because someone was curious and everyone knew about Quinn and her Coyote Ugly girl. 

It’s got more than thirty likes. More than a few comments. 

Oh. FUCK. Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck. 

When the phone rings in her hand, her eyes are so blurry with her frustrated hell-induced tears that she doesn’t think to check the caller. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Quinn,” an eerily calm familiar voice replies. “This is Brittany. I’m really _really_ pissed off at you.”


	15. You And I Get So Damn Dysfunctional We Stopped Keeping Score (B)

Quinn’s head pulses with actual pain, like a pressure clamp has been wedged at each of her temples and begun to screw in tight. She’s nearly choking on the bile of emotion that lodges in her throat, and her HEART- 

God… she can’t stop the way her heart races in panicked hysteria. 

There is no way she could have prepared for this phone call, or the person placing it.

“Brittany…”

With her eyes watering and her chest so tight it’s difficult to breathe, there’s very little Quinn can do but listen to that familiar voice announcing herself, tone laced with a hard edge that tells her Brittany is indeed furious. 

“Like, REALLY mad,” Brittany adds. “Really, really mad, Quinn.” 

At the moment, Quinn is so overwhelmed, so unable to really THINK that she finds herself blurting, “Did she see the picture?” 

The question hangs in the air like a bad smell. 

After a moment, Brittany just lets out this frustrated exhalation. “… That’s what you’re worried about?” she asks, airy with hurt disbelief. “Whether or not she saw your picture? _Why,_ Quinn? Trying to figure out how you’re going to get away with it?” 

Quinn’s eyes shut tight as she valiantly attempts to will away the awful taste in her mouth and simultaneously push past the pounding ache of her head. But that still leaves the worry. The terrifying worry that Santana… 

“Britt-“

“Yes, Quinn, she saw it,” Brittany snaps, losing patience. “She saw it, and she freaked out and then she told me everything.” 

Quinn’s heart, previously racing so very quickly, skids to a near dead stop in half a second. Quinn is so unprepared for it, she actually gasps in pain. “What’s everything?” 

“What do you think?” 

Quinn has always known that she would eventually have to deal with Brittany and the reality of the turn of Quinn’s relationship with Santana. And honestly, hasn’t she been here all along? She’s been the invisible weight on Quinn’s shoulders. She’s been that phantom witness to every step of her and Santana’s awkward courtship, whispering doubts in Quinn’s ear and laying guilt on her soul. She has been the one PERSON who has stood in the way of every single step forward. 

Why? Because it’s just Quinn and Santana. Since Brittany’s appearance, it’s always been the three of them. Together, they were McKinley royalty. They’re the Unholy Trinity. 

Besties for life. 

_Starting together. Ending together._

God. 

A suddenly memory flashes into her mind. Quinn remembers her anxiety on a dark stage just before their Nationals performance. She can call back in an instant how the nerves stiffened her already stressed muscles and joints, as Quinn tried desperately to just push away her fear. She was still in recovery, and could barely walk, much less dance the complicated Troubletones steps. She was absolutely sure she was going to trip on that stage, fall on her face and ruin New Directions’ chances for a national trophy. 

At Brittany’s instructions, Quinn became absorbed in stretching her tight muscles, flooding oxygen into them by inhaling deeply. She made a point to stand near Brittany in hopes that as if by osmosis her sheer talent, strength and ability could carry Quinn through too. Still, even that didn’t seem enough, until Santana suddenly slipped in between them, tangling fingers into each free hand and smiling at them with this beautiful JOY in her eyes. 

She was so gorgeous, so alive and just happy to be there, with THEM. 

As Santana moved away from them, heading quickly to take her place at the front of the stage, Quinn remembers just staring after her. Unexpectedly hopeful, for no other reason that Santana was there… that Brittany was beside her, that somehow despite every dreaded fear that these two would leave her behind after they got together, they were still the Unholy Trinity. 

“Do you know what that felt like, Quinn?” Brittany’s wounded voice whispers in her ear, distracting her from the memory. “To hear that Santana and you…” God, she can’t bring herself to even say it. “It felt like getting hit in the face with one of Coach Sue’s floggers.” 

Quinn flinches. 

She could get defensive. She could tell Brittany what they both already know: that Brittany and Santana had already broken up when it happened. That there’s no real claim for Brittany to stake here. That Brittany has already moved on with Sam (Quinn AND Santana’s ex-boyfriend) and never bothered to tell either of them. All of this is absolutely true. 

But emotion has never been logical and no one knows that more than Quinn. Humans are their core are not rational. And all those facts don’t change that Quinn and Santana’s connection to each other has shifted and morphed into something that is now beyond Brittany. That Brittany has been left behind in more ways than one. That Quinn is intimately in love with Santana, and if there was half a chance, would claim her for herself. That she wants Santana to choose HER. 

Boiled down to the simplest actions, Quinn slept with her so-called best friend’s ex-girlfriend, the love of Brittany’s life and, perhaps from Brittany’s perspective, barely even paused to consider how it would make Brittany feel. 

And maybe she is the selfish bitch she always was, because Quinn has no regrets. Not about that. 

“I’m sorry you had to find out that way,” she admits, because she knows at the very least, Brittany deserved to hear it from her. Maybe it would have made a difference if she had confided in Brittany, trusted her instead of trying desperately to pretend she didn’t exist. 

A dark laugh erupts, low and dark. It’s difficult to hear. Quinn is just so used to the bubbly, bright, happy Brittany, who always has a gorgeous smile for her that always reaches those crystal blue eyes. 

Not that the angry Brittany doesn’t exist. Angry Brittany is actually terrifying. She never explodes in uncontrolled violent rage like Quinn or Santana, erupting in angry slaps and wounding quips and then nearly forgotten just as quickly. Brittany has never been a physically violent person. No, Brittany’s vindictiveness has always been set at a terrible simmer, slow-to-rise and never expected. Brittany does get upset, she’s human after all, but she tends to keep it quiet. She will deliver an oddly cruel statement with beguiling blue eyes, making it that much more unsettling. 

When Santana was outed, Brittany was so furious she actually refused to speak for a long time. 

Brittany’s anger manifests itself in a silent, sullen girl with a cool, indifferent glare and a deliberate kind of torment that picks at weaknesses like tiny little scabs. Quinn remembers quite vividly how Blaine earned her ire with a passing comment about Santana that he didn’t even realize she overheard, and paid the price with Brittany banning hair gel from prom. 

Quinn has disappointed Brittany more than once. She’s never incurred her wrath. Not really. 

Not until now. 

“It suddenly made so much sense…” Brittany exhales slowly. “I just… I was wondering… she came back and she was acting really different and…” Quinn has no strength. She clenches at her comforter with her free hand, and forces herself to just listen. “It scared me, and I thought …” Brittany loses her strength for a moment, fading into silence, but she soon recovers. “You know she promised… she promised she would always love me the most.” 

Quinn’s eyes snap open. “Brittany-“ 

“I believed her,” Brittany continues, cutting off anything Quinn may say. “I _still_ believe her.” Quinn can only swallow miserably in response. “But… Santana… she doesn’t do this stuff lightly. I thought she would just get a girlfriend, someone who liked her but didn’t really know her and that would be okay…” 

“Britt-“ 

“But you?” Brittany sighs, incredulous and angry. “You, Quinn?” 

Tears sting her eyes. Quinn is hurt, she knows that. But why? She has no idea. Is she insulted? Is she wounded? Does she feel guilty? God, she doesn’t even know anymore. Everything is so muddled together, sucked inside of her into this knotted mess that she can’t even begin to untangle. 

“We never planned this-“ she tries. 

“I know.” Brittany’s tone is resigned. “Santana wouldn’t do that. She does stupid stuff sometimes, and she’s vindictive as hell but she doesn’t just put away her feelings. Not with me.”

Quinn’s already bruised heart aches once again. Here’s the great love of Santana’s life, so calm and self-assured, telling Quinn very clearly what she’s always known. She knows Santana better. Santana isn’t Quinn’s to have. Santana will never belong to Quinn. 

Whatever fabricated fantasy Quinn has indulged… whatever ever tiny cocoon existed away from the mess of Lima, the reality of Brittany is here to destroy it. 

“No one knows her like I do, Quinn. Not even you. Even you thought she was just a bitch, but I knew, even back then… even when you were busy selling her out to Coach Sylvester over her plastic surgery just so you could get back on top, I always knew that she is a good person.” 

Intelligence has always been Quinn’s saving grace. She’s done plenty of stupid things, but manipulation? She knows that well. Brittany’s building up to something. She’s hurt and she’s angry and betrayed, and on top of all that, Brittany knows that because of Quinn’s drunken actions last night, Quinn’s hurt Santana: all very good reasons to dismantle Quinn completely, friendly past be damned. 

Brittany is just as good at strategy. She knows how to tie people up into knots with her words or a carefully placed phrase. 

“Brittany-“ 

“But you’re not a good person, Quinn.” 

It comes. She’s not ready for it, and Brittany’s statement smacks into Quinn like a sucker punch to her gut. “Excuse me?” 

“You and Santana think you’re really alike,” Brittany states. “But you’re not. I’ve always known you’re lonely Quinn,” Brittany’s tone is pitying: condescending. “I’ve always kinda felt bad for you, because everyone deserves to be loved, but you never gave a damn about the people that did love you. You’re kind of a two-faced hypocrite.” She’s so damn casual, like Brittany’s not talking about the fucking weather instead of digging a knife into Quinn’s stomach and twisting against her organs just for the hell of it. “Finn? Puck? Sam? They all loved you. They all wanted you. Half of the damn school wanted you. But it was never good enough. Not for you. You let them love you, and you led them on and you betrayed them, and then after all that you had the gall to wonder why they didn’t love you anymore.” 

Hot tears brim over her eyelids. Quinn blinks rapidly, doing her absolute best to keep them from spilling over. What Brittany is telling her is nothing new. She’s heard it before. She’s had Puck tell her that he’d rather rawdog a beehive rather than sleep with her. She had Sam tell her that her issues amounted to nothing more than rich white girl problems. She had Finn angrily question whether or not, after everything she’s been through, she even feels anything anymore. 

But to hear it from Brittany, stated so calmly and simply just to prove that Quinn is no hero… that Quinn deserves nothing… 

“Brittany,” she begins, almost begging for the other girl to stop. 

Her request goes unheeded. “But I never thought… for a MINUTE, that you would do that to me. To us,” she adds, because there are three people involved in this. There’s Santana, always Santana, who floats between them like gorgeous, unattainable apparition. “Maybe you would lie to Finn and lie to Puck, and maybe you would betray Shelby and cheat on Sam, but _we_ were different. We were the Unholy Trinity.” The name comes tumbling from Brittany’s lips and it sounds almost sordid now. How pretentious were they? To claim that name for themselves, like they were some forsaken deities worthy of worship? “But it turns out, I was just like everyone else, and you didn’t give a shit about me, or the Unholy Trinity, because if you did, you wouldn’t have fucked my girlfriend behind my back.”

The anger comes back like a tidal wave. It cascades over Quinn before she’s ready, and for a moment, she fears she’s drowning. 

But as she gasps for breath, Quinn lifts her head and suddenly finds that anger absorbed. In that, she finds her strength. 

“She’s not your girlfriend, Brittany.” 

Brittany wants reality? Quinn will be more than happy to deliver it, because if Brittany has truths to wound her, then so does Quinn. “She’s your ex-girlfriend, and you two had already been broken up and you couldn’t even be bothered to tell her about your new boyfriend by the time that we-“ 

“What?” Brittany interrupts. “By the time that you kissed her? By the time you fucked her?” The word, lewd and carnal, sounds almost ugly coming from Brittany. Quinn presses her lips together and forces herself to sit up. “What about the time you broke her heart by leading her on and then making out with some girl on Facebook?” 

Quinn is nearly blinded by the shudder of rage that coils up her spine. She wipes the tears deliberately off her cheeks. 

No. _Fuck_ this. 

She is Quinn Fabray, and though she is imperfect, though, God knows, time and time again she has forgotten who she is, there is still that manipulating, angry, scared head cheerleader inside of her. The one who parted halls at McKinley High School with a flick of her wrist. The one who made reputations and broke people with a glare and a quip. The one who got pregnant at sixteen and endured months of shaming and YEARS of hollow emptiness as a result. The one who nearly died in a car accident to attend a wedding she didn’t even believe in and came back to win Prom Queen. 

She is Quinn Fabray. She is a survivor. 

And Brittany? Brittany is no saint, and no one knows it better than Quinn. “God, talk about hypocrites.” She hears a loud exhale, a catch of breath. “I broke her heart?!” Quinn scoffs mockingly at the very idea. “That’s rich coming from the girl who had no problem breaking it for two years.” 

“Quinn, shut up. You don’t know a damn thing about me and Santana. This is bullying and I won’t accept it.” 

Of course. God, _of course_ Brittany is a bitch. She keeps good company. She’s part of the Unholy Trinity, isn’t she? And they’re all bitches. All of them. Brittany is no exception. 

Brittany has always just hidden it better, behind her unicorns and marshmallows and her famed anti-bullying stance for everyone who refused to cater to her and her whims. 

But not from Quinn. Never from Quinn. 

“No,” she shakes her head. In her fevered emotion, Quinn finds the strength to push off the bed, thankful for the righteous anger that keeps any hangover-induced nausea at bay. “If you want to tell me all about my mistakes, then I get to tell you all about yours, because no one, NO ONE, ever calls you on your shit, Brittany.” She hates how it’s true, hates how she actually resents Brittany for it. 

But she does. 

Yes, she’s not perfect. She cheated on Sam and she cheated on Finn, but Brittany cheated on Artie with Santana for MONTHS and somehow still got him to apologize to her for calling her stupid over it. No one judged her. No one threw it in her face. God, she heard Artie even sung her a ballad in her home economics class in an attempt to take her to prom. 

It was all because of bitchy, evil Santana, seducing poor dumb Brittany. 

But no. No. Quinn knows better. A bitch knows her own. 

“Santana wouldn’t have even COME to me, if you hadn’t decided it was okay to marry your new boytoy and announce it all over Facebook, live blogging your little fuckfest to rub it in her face. You think I hurt her? How do you think that made her feel?” 

“That wasn’t supposed to happen like that.” Brittany’s voice has gone breathless, husky in its hurt defensiveness. “I didn’t know Sam was doing that. I was trying to figure out how to tell her, and besides, she TOLD ME I could see other people. God, Quinn, I BEGGED her to get back together and it didn’t matter. She still dumped me.” 

“You didn’t give her a choice! You blamed her for leaving you,” she snapped. “For having the AUDACITY to graduate and go to a college she didn’t even want to go to, with a very demanding athletic scholarship that YOU got for her, just to be close to you because you cause flunked out and didn’t tell anyone until it as too late, when EVERYONE knew, she would have rather been in New York.” 

She gets nothing in response. 

And it’s stupid. It’s stupid because this isn’t her problem. This is a conversation that SANTANA should be having with Brittany. She should have nothing to do with this. 

But she’s here. She’s in this. She’s dug herself so deep and planted her flag and because of that, Quinn can’t help herself. 

“Brittany… you know you’ve already moved on. She should be able to do that too. Even if it is... even if it is with me.” 

“Do I, Quinn?” Brittany’s voice is mocking, almost cruel with her sarcasm. “Do I really know that? Because I don’t. I don’t know that.” Quinn’s chest rises and falls. Dimly, she can hear the thunderous footsteps of some boys racing down the dorm room. It seems to match pace with her heart. “But I will tell you what I do know: I know you hurt her. And I know you’re going to keep hurting her, just like you hurt everyone who cares about you, and I know that that’s okay. I’m counting on it,” she adds with forced brightness. “Because every time you hurt her, it’s me that she’s going to go to, and it’s me that’s going to remind her that I’m where she belongs.” 

It’s a fervent statement, given with every confidence in the world. The intention is clear as day: Brittany Pierce is not done with Santana. Despite her boyfriend, despite her fake wedding, despite _Quinn_. 

A sudden sob chokes Quinn’s throat. She does her best to tamp it down. “Brittany,” she whispers, frail and human. “You have to let her go. You’re not good for her right now.” She laughs, low and harsh, aware of how weak she sounds. How pathetic. How selfish. It’s stupid, to be showing every card in her deck. She does it anyway. “Maybe I’m not either,” she confesses. 

God, isn’t that why she got into this whole mess to begin with? Refusing Santana, choosing not to claim her because she knew, she KNEW, Santana needed independence to grow into her own and find her dreams? 

“But at least I love her enough to let her go and be what she wants in New York.”

There’s a long, distinct pause as Brittany absorbs that confession. Quinn doesn’t need to spell it out. She knows it’s bleeding out of her in the quiver of her voice, the way she nearly begs for understanding. 

Quinn loves Santana. 

And maybe, THAT will be enough. Maybe if Brittany knows, if she understands just how much Quinn cares… maybe she’ll understand that none of this happened just because Quinn wanted into Santana’s pants. 

“I told Santana to go to New York, Quinn. You’re right. That’s where she belongs. She’s heading back right now.” There is almost a sad resignation to Brittany’s words, like they’ve reached some sort of understanding. Quinn bites her lip, on a precipice, waiting for the fall. “But I’m not giving up on her. And I’m going to make it to New York.” 

Quinn finds herself too exhausted to be as terrified as she should be. “Well good luck with that,” she manages, and decides that she doesn’t have to listen to this. Not anymore. “Good-bye, Brittany.” 

“Bye, Quinn,” Brittany answers, just as cordially. 

The line disconnects. As Quinn lowers her phone, she notices the wet condensation on the screen. Raising her palm to her heated flesh, Quinn stares at cloudy glass. 

The air feels suffocating in her tiny dorm room. 

Another Facebook notification pops up. 

Torn between wanting to sob her heart out, and rip something apart with her bare hands, Quinn realizes that at this moment, she’s frozen, and can do nothing but reach for her trash can, and pray she doesn’t miss. 

\--

Quinn has never been one to simply wallow. There are too many demons hidden in Quinn’s closet for her to sink into herself for very long, and Quinn can’t just sit around. 

She was sitting in a wheelchair for months. She’s had enough sitting. 

Brittany’s words are like a poison. They seem into her, just like they were meant to. Brittany’s ghost, that quiet phantom that would whisper doubts in her ear, is not back, and she knows, that’s what Brittany wanted. 

Yes, Brittany is hurt. Brittany is betrayed. She has every right to be. 

But Brittany is also smart. Maybe she’s not book smart, but she knows people. And she knows Quinn. She’s doing exactly what Brittany does best. Staking her claim. Infecting Quinn. 

It’s working. 

It makes Quinn fucking furious. 

So, she picks herself up off the floor and absorbs herself in cleaning up the best she can. She takes a long, scalding hot shower, washing the stink of alcohol and vomit away. She scrubs at her skin until it’s pink and raw. 

Her nausea persists, so she recalls what Santana said about Kurt and his hangover and spreads a spare pack of honey she finds on Tabitha’s side over some toast. She chews it down and swallows down two water bottles that she pairs with some Advil. 

Perhaps the rage shows on her face, because no one attempts to engage her. She gets back to her bedroom unaccosted, and settles down immediately on her laptop to open up Facebook. She makes a status update about ‘First year college stupid regrets’ and tags it #neveragain. She unfriends and blocks John Vinson (a guy she doesn’t even remember friending in the first place) and removes that stupid picture from her timeline. 

The calls keep coming. She ignores every one. She doesn’t care about Rachel or Kurt or Mercedes or even her mother. Not right now. She deletes every text that comes after the calls are ignored. 

There is only one person Quinn wants to hear from, and that’s the only person that doesn’t call. Or text. 

After an hour of waiting, Quinn loses patience and uses shaky hands that can barely press against her touch screen appropriately, to call Santana. When the call is sent to voicemail, Quinn leaves a careful message asking Santana to call her and then tries again. 

She does this over and over again. Each call goes unanswered. Every time Quinn hears Santana’s overly chipper and judgy voice as the message picks up, her heart sinks. 

She tries texting next, waiting half an hour before trying again. Her words are awkward, because for once Quinn has no idea what to say. She wants to explain to Santana. She wants to apologize, even if technically, TECHNICALLY, she did nothing wrong. 

She wants to tell her it wasn’t what it looked like it. That the truth is that this was just a drunken peck with a stupid curious straight girl she hardly remembers. 

She wants to apologize for… for what? For being drunk? For freaking out? For being jealous and insecure? 

Quinn didn’t cheat on her. She knows that. Quinn and Santana are not together. Quinn made damn sure of that. God, that’s why she’s in this whole stupid mess to begin with. 

As the headache fades, the paranoia comes. Quinn rereads old texts, remembers phone conversations, time upon time where she told Santana that they weren’t together, that Santana could see someone else. Each time, Santana resisted. 

What if Santana takes this as confirmation that Quinn wanted something else this whole time? 

Fuck. 

The truth matters. She has to tell Santana, because even if they’re not together, even if technically Quinn did nothing wrong, she still is desperately to know why Santana went to Lima to see Brittany in the first place, and she wants to know why Brittany sent her back this quickly. 

The fifth text goes unanswered, and all it says is, _At least please let me know you got back home safe._

An hour later, Kurt texts her a message she can’t just ignore. 

_Santana just got home. She’s super pissed at Rachel and she’s kicked me out of my bed. She’s just fallen asleep._

Quinn stares at the message. She has ten thousand questions. Before she can reply, Kurt messages her again. 

_Stop texting her, Quinn. She’s safe and she’s fine, but she’s exhausted. I’m sure she’ll get back to you when she’s ready._

It’s a rational, simple reply and it takes everything in Quinn to reply with nothing more than a simple, _Thanks for telling me, Kurt._

All she gets back is a simple smiley face. 

In burst of violent, desperate rage, Quinn grabs hold of the book she was trying to distract herself with and flings it across the room. 

It’s at just the perfect arc and velocity to viciously bean Tabitha across the head as the other girl suddenly enters the room. 

\--

It takes a trip to the nearest coffee house, eleven bucks worth of expensive coffee and a bran muffin to finally convince Tabitha that was the bruise on her left temple was not a deliberate attack on her for getting laid and abandoning her. 

Her friend looks tired, but sated. Clearly, she had a good time. 

Quinn wishes she could find it in herself to care enough to ask how Tabitha’s one night stand went. A good roommate would ask. 

Quinn isn’t sure she’s a good person, much less a good roommate. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how Quinn looks at it, Tabitha is much more interested in hearing why Quinn flung a book at her and nearly gave her a concussion. 

Spilling her guts is becoming a dangerous habit, because Quinn actually tells her everything, including the conversation with Brittany. 

Tabitha must recharge on gossip. By the time Quinn is done, her eyes are positively sparkling from the scandal of it. 

“Wow,” she says, and takes another sip of her coffee, settling back in the huge fluffy arm chair that seats them both, tucked in the corner of the coffee house, like she’s just read a really good book. “That sucks, I’m sorry.” 

Quinn wonders if she can get away with flinging her coffee cup at Tabitha’s head. “Yeah,” she says, and closes her eyes, exhausted. 

“No, really, Quinn.” Tabitha presses a warm hand to her knee and squeezes reassuringly. “It really sucks. And I know you’ve had a really horrible day. But there is an upside.” 

Quinn’s eye squints open. “Do tell.” 

Tabitha rolls her eyes at Quinn’s obvious skeptical tone. “Well, if Santana was upset enough to tell her ex-girlfriend everything that happened with you, then that means that nothing happened with _her_ ,” she explains, like she’s spelling out an equation. “And that she cares enough about you to get really upset that you kissed another girl.” 

Just the memory makes Quinn wince. Her hand slaps against her face, rubbing miserably. “God,” she laments, wounded over her own idiocy. “How could I be so stupid?” 

“You were drunk,” Tabitha points out reasonably. “Those two things kinda go hand in hand.” Quinn lowers her hand and exhales slowly, focus trained on the unique planks that make up the ceiling of this obviously ‘quirky’ coffee house. Stupid pretentious Yale. “And it really was just a peck. I was there. I saw it. You even called her ‘Santana-lite’.” 

“Yeah, well Santana doesn’t know what.” A sudden lump clogs her throat. Quinn swallows hard to avoid the tears. “All she saw was that damn Facebook picture.” Quinn picks up her phone, sliding across the screen to stare at her notifications. “And she won’t text me. She won’t return my calls.” 

“Well, obviously, she’s hurt. And you said it yourself, the girl’s got a temper. Maybe she’s just afraid to say something she’ll regret.” 

“Santana has never been one for impulse control.” 

“Look, Quinn, you didn’t do anything wrong. Not really. You’ve said so yourself, you’re not exclusive.” 

A bitter laugh chokes out of her. “Yeah, and at this rate, I guess we’re never going to be.” 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Tabitha picks a crumb off her bran muffin and pops it in her mouth like a popcorn kernel. “You know honestly, I would have thought you would have been freaking out more about your Mom seeing the picture and you being kinda of outed on Facebook.” 

Quinn doesn’t move. Her eyes stay on the ceiling, and she absorbs that. She wonders how to feel about it. She feels like she SHOULD panic, all things considered. But her mother has seen Quinn goes through worse, maybe, because all her voicemail said was, “Quinn, are you actually gay now or is this another cry for attention? I’ve scheduled a meeting for your therapist for Spring Break. He says that expressing one’s sexuality at college is perfectly natural. But at the very least, please try to keep your drunken lesbian shenanigans off Facebook. We don’t need another reason for your father to be an asshole or for the ladies at Church to keep promoting you to the top of the prayer chain. Love you, sweetie.” 

Therapy really has done wonders for her insane mother. 

“Me too, actually.” 

There’s almost no one else in the coffee house. Apparently Quinn and Tabitha are the only two morons who braved the cold. 

She can feel the heat of Tabitha’s stare gazing at her, and for once she resents it. She doesn’t want to be pitied. 

She’s actually still pretty damn furious. 

Quinn considered making a scathing comment about Tabitha, maybe her weight, or the way her glasses have left a slight mark on the side of her eyes, for no other reason that she can. 

The vicious comment dies in her throat when a soft hand slips into her own, tangling in support. “She’ll come around, Quinn. Once you explain it, it’ll be okay.” 

The tears come as quickly as the anger fades, and Quinn hates herself for that weakness. Blinking back the moisture, she finds herself saying with a cracked voice, “It won’t though.” 

“Of course it will.” 

But Tabitha doesn’t get it. Quinn shifts, turns shining bright eyes to her roommate. “It’s not just Santana. Brittany and I were actually friends. One of the few I knew loved me.” She licks her quivering lip. “I care about her. I know … I broke some sort of code, I recognize that.” Her head falls back against the fluffy fabric of the couch. “Whatever happens, she won’t ever trust me again. No matter what, I’ve lost a friend out of this.” 

It hurts, to think about that. It hurts a lot. 

“Well, actions have consequences.” Quinn presses her mouth together, feels her jaw tick. “Was it worth it?” Tabitha arches a brow at her. “Would you have done anything differently?” 

Quinn processes the question, and considers her actions. The moments that have led up together bleed together like a tapestry, but Quinn can pick them out, opening the door to a frozen Santana days before Christmas. Sitting on a couch with Nina snoring on top of them. Quiet conversations in on a Bushwick balcony. The sweet kiss of Santana’s lips in a tiny bathroom. The whispers and promises and love that permeated a New Year’s Eve. “No,” she admits, and feels her heart quiver in response. “I would have called Santana last night instead of getting drunk but… other than that… no.” 

“Well, there you go.” Tabitha shrugs, like this is all so very reasonable. “So now the only thing you can do? Is make sure that this is worth it. Santana will come around, and you will keep her. And for the record,” she adds, with a smile that lights up the dark complexion of Tabitha’s beautiful skin tone. “I know it’s not the same, but you gained a friend out of all this too.” 

It’s quite possibly the sweetest thing Quinn’s heard from her roommate. Determined to be a jerk, she smirks slightly and questions, “Nina?” 

The slap against her shoulder is immediate. “Me, you jerk.” 

Quinn laughs, a short release that she discovers she actually really needs. Tabitha arches a challenging brow, and as Quinn stares thoughtfully at her, she’s suddenly very grateful for the dork pre-med that shares her space and eats all her Reeses Cups and plays her stupid music too loudly. 

She shifts enough to allow her head to fall against Tabitha’s shoulder in silent appreciation. Tabitha apparently takes the quiet snuggle for the end of the conversation, and goes back to surfing her phone and eating her muffin. 

Quinn decides for the moment, she’s okay with just existing. 

The coffee house baristas continue to work, ignoring them as their only two squatters. Other customers float in an out. Music floats from the speakers. There’s a Howie Day song that continues to play on rotation. The lyrics are actually haunting. 

_When she said she wants somebody else, I hope you know that's she doesn't mean you._

Quinn sucks in a deep breath. 

_And when she breaks down and makes a sound, You'll never hear her the way that I do._

“What if Brittany’s right?” she finds herself asking. 

“Right about what?” Tabitha’s eyes never lift from her screen. 

_And when she says she wants someone to love, I hope you know that she doesn't mean you._

“What if I am toxic?” Quinn feels her soul weigh down in her chest, heavy and solid. “What if I end up hurting Santana?” 

_And when she breaks down and lets you down, I hope you know that she doesn't mean to._

Tabitha puts down her muffin and her phone. Her friend looks oddly thoughtful. “We do work in patterns,” she concedes, and Quinn feels suddenly like sobbing again. “I can’t say you won’t. But I think the real reason you’re scared is because you’re more afraid of Santana hurting you,” she adds, with a soft shrug. “Because you know that what you feel for her, doesn’t compare to anything you’ve ever felt before. And by facing that, you can change, and you can grow. You can be better for her.”

Quinn absorbs that. “When we love, we always strive to become better than we are,” she finds herself quoting. “When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.” 

Tabitha only stares at her strangely. 

“It’s from the Alchemist,” she exclaims. “Paulo Coelho?” she adds, when Tabitha doesn’t seem to get it. 

Tabitha arches a quizzical brow. “You are such a nerd,” she states in judgment, and then smirks and offers Quinn half of her muffin. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we will finally reconnect with Santana and find out the reason she went to Lima. :)
> 
> Also, I love Brittany. I will never try to demonize her. I'm just trying to present everyone as real as they can be based on the situation and characters involved.
> 
> Have a great weekend!


	16. I'd Be Waking Up In The Morning Probably Hating Myself (B)

The next few days are agonizing. It’s not often that Quinn feels quite as powerless as she does right now, and if there was something she could do to try and fix this … situation with Santana, she would do it in a heartbeat.

But she has no idea how. 

And God, everyone has an opinion. EVERYONE. Tabitha and Nina, who Quinn is very quickly discovering that despite having the best intentions (and if judged only by virtue of their unflappable support are actually amazing friends that she’s lucky to have), are horrible at giving any sort of constructive relationship advice. Tabitha’s developed some sort of romantic complex that seems to be cultivated right out of the Stephanie Meyers School of Destructive Romantic Clichés. It involves a Ten Step Plan that includes (but is not limited to) midnight trains to New York, a blood red rose and, for some really odd reason, sage. Nina, currently in a long distance relationship that she’s only too happy with because it frees up most of her time for studying, is no better. In an attempt to get better at English, she’s taken to reading online fan fiction for the television show _Rizzoli and Isles_ on the side, and already has forced Quinn to sit through a dramatic reading of her favorite story, which was followed up with a lecture of how it should be her new game plan. 

To be fair, it _is_ a beautifully written romantic story that rivals most of the novels she’s read lately, but Quinn has no idea where on Earth she’d even find a cop uniform or a gun, and as lovely as it all sounds on paper, she’s still not sold on the idea of having make up sex on a cold sterile pull out table normally used for housing recently deceased bodies. 

Yeah, Quinn loves her New Haven friends, but when it comes to this, they’re utterly useless. 

Not that Kurt and Rachel are tremendously helpful either. However well Rachel and Santana were getting along before (which, Kurt tells her, was shockingly well), they’re furious at each other now, and Quinn has no idea why. The one time Quinn actually stamped down her pride and called Rachel, her friend just began screeching something about Brody and a massive invasion of privacy and what she thinks is a garage door opener. She nearly burst Quinn’s eardrum with the high volume and pitch before Rachel got distracted and hung up on her. Kurt has adopted a stance to stay out of it completely, but he’s at least texted to report that both of his roommates are being heinous bitches, and he’s resorted to breaking out the ‘good chocolate’ he normally reserves for throwing at them like feed during their ‘lady time days’.

Apparently not even that has helped. 

His only advice? Leave it alone. 

_Santana will come around,_ he texted curtly that last time she not so sneakily bugged him for information. _She knows you want to talk, and she knows you’re upset. Maybe she just wants to be in a place where she can say something without regretting it._

That’s all well and good, except Quinn knows Santana, and Santana tends to never regret a thing she says. It’s actually a point of pride with her mostly rude love interest. This is really just Kurt’s way of telling her that Santana’s still pissed, and that honestly, is privately devastating. 

Quinn is the queen of self-sabotage. She’s ruined relationships before. Hell, she’s ruined EVERY relationship she’s ever had. And she’s survived. No matter what, she’s moved on. She’s always moved on from them, because honestly, did she ever truly need any of them? 

This… this is different. 

This… thing with Santana is tentative and new and so, so fragile, but it’s HERS. She forged it with her own tears, her emotion, her own gumption, and her sheer will. It’s a treasure. Quinn’s never had something like this before. The very idea that one night of bad judgment, one phone call, one kiss, could ruin it so completely and irreparably… 

Quinn is usually such a skeptic, and a pessimist to booth, but she’s not ready to believe that. Not yet. 

So she does the only thing she can. Ignoring the advice of everyone (because honestly, none of them are really any better off), Quinn finally settles on sending Santana a simple text: _When you’re ready to talk, I’m here._

Maybe it’s not exactly what she means to say, but she and Santana have known each other long enough that she hopes Santana will understand anyway. She means that she wants Santana. She wants this. She’s not ready to dismiss what they have… even if they have no way of defining it. Brittany’s phone call, meant to displace her and throw her into self-destructive anxiety, has instead worked to give her a furious sort of determination that this will not end because of a stupid kiss on a stupid night when she was hurt and alone and fearing the worst. 

Her heart literally jumps out of her chest when she feels an answering buzz a minute later. Santana texts back a simple response: _Ok. Thanks._

In the scope of things, it’s almost nothing. 

Somehow, it still feels like everything. 

\--

Despite the fact that some of the more pretentious academic students at Yale like to look down upon the theatrical department and it’s students, the fact remains that a Yale major is still Yale. Quinn’s classes are challenging, and for that, she’s grateful.

When her head is busy with academics, it’s easier to force Santana from her mind. 

Unless, of course, she’s forgotten to log out of her latest group studying Skype session, and discovers five minutes later as she lifts her head in the middle of her reading, that Santana Lopez is the one sending her a request to connect. 

For one ridiculous, terrifying moment, Quinn actually hesitates in accepting. It’s a panicked, terrible sort of feeling. She’s not prepared. She’s not ready. 

She’s an idiot. 

It’s _Santana._

With a sunken in sigh, Quinn clicks with her mouse and there, on a tiny screen five inches high, suddenly is projected an image of the gorgeous Santana Lopez, dark brown hair falling over her shoulder in glossy waves and wide brown eyes just taking her in.

“… Hi,” Quinn whispers, overcome. 

Santana’s expressive mouth trembles in response. Or maybe it doesn’t. It could be a brief bit of fuzziness thanks to Quinn’s less than stellar internet connection. Quinn doesn’t have the confidence to even attempt to second guess herself. 

She realizes she’s staring, but she hasn’t actually seen Santana since their parting at the train station on New Year’s Day. 

It’s been too long. Quinn recognizes her own weakness when her fingers curl… she physically ACHES for her. 

“I’ve been trying to call you,” she begins, a haggard hand digging through her bangs. 

“I know,” Santana responds shortly, and momentarily Quinn feels like an idiot. Of course she does. She’s been the one ignoring her calls this whole time. 

“Right… of course.” 

Quinn feels the flush blanket her cheeks hotly. Determined to push past her awkwardness, Quinn chooses instead to study the setting. Santana has settled on the living room sofa. It’s clear the laptop is on her lap, because as she readjusts herself, the video bobbles. 

“I wanted to call,” Santana announces suddenly, not allowing the quiet, tense moment to settle before she licks her lips and continues. “I just… I may or may not have some rage over some brunette skank putting her lips all over you.” 

And that’s… direct. So much more direct than Quinn expected it to be. Her chest constricts, squeezing the breath out of her. “Santana,” she tries, choked on remorse. “It… it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

Santana’s offers only a disgusted flinch. “I really don’t want to hear about it, Quinn.” 

Of course she doesn’t, even if she’s the one that brought the damn thing up in the first place. 

Well, tough. An explanation needs to be given, because too much damage has been done thanks to assumption. “No, Santana,” she corrects, soft but firm. “You need to listen. I was drunk and someone asked me to kiss some girl as a favor and it only lasted for a second. It didn’t mean anything.” 

A loud scoff rumbles out of her speakers. “Quinn, I don’t give a –“ 

“I only did it because I was drunk and she looked like you.” 

Quinn watches carefully as those dark eyes lift. The irritation that was slowly beginning to flash in Santana’s orbs fades… at least Quinn thinks it does (seriously, fuck this terrible connection). It’s so hard to read what Santana is thinking from the way she’s just looking at Quinn. 

Finally, the other girl sighs, eyes flickering away from the screen momentarily. 

“Maybe you were right,” she begins, and Quinn’s heart sinks. Santana’s tone is flat, her eyes keep skidding away from the monitor, glancing on some part of Rachel and Kurt’s apartment that Quinn wishes she could see. “I should focus more on me. And no so much on…” 

On this. On Quinn. On _them_. 

God, how is it that there is so much said in the unspoken? Has it always been like this with them? 

And yeah, maybe Santana should go completely against character and actually take Quinn’s well meant advice. Maybe a good friend would agree with her, because honestly isn’t that what’s Quinn’s been telling her from the beginning? That they can’t be together because Santana needs to focus on herself? 

Is it hypocritical that that’s the last thing she wants now? Or is that growth? 

“Santana, I never-” 

“You’re the one that said it,” the other girl continues, rushing to interrupt before Quinn can finish. Santana’s agitated. She’s tugging on those dark strands of hers, eyes constantly evading the way Quinn’s looking at her, enunciating every word like she’s suddenly Rachel. “We’re not together. You’re allowed to do whatever you want, including make out with pre-med sluts.” 

And there it is. 

In one sentence, Santana has turned petulant. 

Quinn feels both resigned and oddly, relieved. This, at least, is the Santana she knows. Pissed off. Spoiled. Possessive. Territorial enough to care that Quinn’s kissed someone else. 

Angry that someone has touched what she considers to be hers. 

That’s good. Quinn can work with angry. She can work with territorial. 

She’s no stranger to either emotion. 

“That’s not what I want, Santana,” she says, clipping her words as her head shakes with visible frustration at Santana’s complete obtuseness. “None of how that stupid night went down is what I want.”

Santana’s mouth opens. Quinn can already see the beginning of whatever acerbic reply is coming forming on her lips, but as Santana’s eyes lock on her own, whatever vicious words that were so ready to come flying out die. Instead, the other woman huffs loudly, eyes rolling dramatically, arms crossing. 

Santana sucks on her own tongue for a moment, then asks, “So what do you want, Quinn?” 

Her throat closes. Her tongue swells. Quinn’s eyes close in a deliberate blink. “I want...” 

_I want you so badly_ , she wants to say. _I want you not to be so damn frustrating and just listen to me for once. I want to be sure of you, and not be afraid every time Brittany speaks and you heel on command like a trained Doberman._

“I want us to be okay,” she finds herself saying, and flushes at her own ineptitude. She’s such a coward. “And I’m sorry that that happened,” she continues, hoping beyond hope that Santana will actually listen. “I wouldn’t have even come close to doing something so stupid, but I freaked out.” Dark eyes study her intently. Quinn sucks in a pained breath. The resignation hits her so softly it feels like a tiny wave on a shore. “You went all the way to Lima to see Brittany and you didn’t even tell me.” 

There it is. The ‘B’ Word. 

How Santana will react is a mystery, but Quinn needs to lay it out there. Quinn exhibited terrible judgment, but it was in direct response to an action taken by Santana. 

And maybe Quinn deserves to be angry about that. 

She isn’t, oddly enough. She’s… 

She just needs to know. 

So she waits anxiously, chewing on her lower lip and waiting. 

There’s a soft, uncomfortable cough, before Santana shifts once again on the couch and then scratches lightly at her cheek. “Brittany called me because she thought she was pregnant.” 

That particular sentence is the last she expects to hear. 

“What?” is the only dumb response she can muster. 

“I should have told you,” Santana purses her lips, before her head falls back against the back of the couch. “But I had no idea Rachel was going to open her _huge fucking mouth_ ,” she barks, louder than before, and Quinn suspects that Santana may not be completely alone in the apartment after all. Santana takes a moment to swallow. She’s openly fidgety now. Her fingers tangle together just underneath her chin. Quinn focuses on the movement, oddly numb. “And I didn’t want to freak you out until Britt and I knew for sure…” 

It’s scary, how quickly it all snaps into place, like the different pieces of a puzzle that just needed to be flipped in just the right way. 

“She had a pregnancy scare,” she repeats. Suddenly, Quinn is sixteen again. Immediately, that panic is back, the quick, sharp gasps of air, the terror, the way the world bottomed out from under her the minute she looked at that white stick and saw the damning result. 

It’s not her, she reminds herself. It’s not her. 

But God. It’s not even happening to her, and Quinn wants to run to the bathroom to vomit out her nausea. 

Santana quietly notes the stricken expression and matches it with a flat one of her own. 

“Yeah.” Her mouth twitches, like she’s chewing marbles. “Apparently thinking the world is gonna end means you can do it without condoms.” 

_Oh, God._ Brittany and Sam and their stupid Mayan Wedding. Which was followed by a Mayan Apocalypse Honeymoon, and a full weekend of ‘bramming’ as evidenced by Facebook. 

God, how could Brittany… how could she be so stupid? 

She’s not. Brittany’s not this stupid. Brittany is not… how could she-

The sour feeling in her stomach curdles, causing her actual pain. “God-dammit, Brittany,” she breathes, suddenly furious at her airheaded friend. Her chest pounds, and she shudders with horror. 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said,” she hears Santana say. “Brittany went off the pill when she got with me officially and somehow forgot to go back on it after we broke up.” 

The lump in her throat is almost impossible to swallow down. Quinn’s head raises, afraid to even breathe. “… is she?” 

Santana stares at her for one horrible moment. “No.” 

Quinn’s entire body deflates with the relief. 

“But let’s just say it was a rude awakening for her. For both of us.” Quinn lifts her head. Santana is just so… quiet. Her voice is so flat, devoid of emotion. She’s exhausted. The dullness of her eyes betrays her as they lose their focus, as if Santana’s lost in some far away moment. Quinn wishes suddenly she could be there, beside her on that damn couch, just so she could reach out to her with her fingers, tangle them in her own and squeeze them for support. 

But she’s not in New York, and this is Skype, so all Quinn can do is stare at the woman she loves, her heart in her throat. 

“She’s breaking up with Sam.” 

“Oh,” is all she can manage, and she wonders if she’s that transparent, because Santana’s eyes flicker up and catch hers, lingering with an unreadable expression. 

They both just sit there like idiots, staring at each other through a stupid computer, like that’s all there is between them now. Like just sitting here talking about Brittany’s false alarm and the fact that she’s ending her relationship with their now completely mutual ex-boyfriend … 

Like it doesn’t have the power to completely decimate every part of Quinn. 

“I see,” she manages, unable to say anything else. 

“Yeah,” Santana says, with a snort that sounds hollow and almost angry. “Turns out there’s nothing scarier than learning it’s possible to spawn the Salmon’s fishy offspring.” Quinn shakes her head, but says nothing. Santana bites her lip. “She said she realized she won’t ever love him. Not like… “ 

It’s so inappropriate, but Quinn’s first impulse is to laugh. It comes from a bitter, hollow part of her, and Quinn strangely wants so badly to give in to it. 

But God, it makes so much sense.

Brittany calling her. The anger in her voice. The almost complete desperation in her tone. The way she threatened and snapped at Quinn, like a dog with its leg caught in a bear trap. Doing everything she could to pee on Santana and push Quinn away from her. 

Just like Quinn at sixteen, Brittany felt that noose catch and tighten around her neck and reacted with panicked actions. 

Whatever fantasy life that Brittany had built for herself in the safe, secure walls of McKinley High, the adult world of consequence had proved inescapable. Peter Pan discovered that Neverland didn’t actually exist. 

And Quinn knows from experience, that reality does wonders for rearranging one’s priorities. 

“She wants you back,” she surmises correctly. Because, duh. It’s that simple. Brittany had fun with her boytoy Sam until reality slapped her in the face and now she wants her forever back. She’s done playing around. Maybe Brittany thought it would be that easy. After all, she called Santana and immediately Santana ran to her side. 

But she hadn’t counted on Quinn. She hadn’t counted on a Facebook post, and Santana actually caring, growing, shifting away from her the way adults do when confronted with life. 

And fuck. Why? Why now? 

Quinn feels just so stupidly foolish. She knew this was coming. She knew someway or another, Brittany would wake the fuck up, snap her fingers, and Santana would be back where she belongs. 

How did she think things would ever turn out differently than that? 

But she knows why. She knows exactly why, because there’s Santana, who just stares at her with these wide, wet eyes, like she’s just as torn, just as sad, just as angry at this turn of events and it’s not FAIR, because Santana has always been predictable when it comes to Brittany. 

Always. 

This isn’t something that Santana should surprise her in. 

“I don’t know what she wants,” Santana says, sounded exhausted. She’s the picture of frustration, rubbing harshly at her neck like she’s got an itch that she doesn’t know how to scratch. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t change the fact that..” 

“That what?” Maybe if she voices it again, maybe if Quinn hears it, she can fight. She can beg and claim and be everything Santana wants. Maybe that will be her strength. 

Another moment, another beat. 

“That things are different now,” is the careful answer, and Quinn feels both let down and pathetically silly in her relief. “It’s just… I’m so fucking PISSED, Q, you know?!” Santana shakes her head furiously. Quinn watches, eyes stinging with emotion. “I was GOOD, you know!? I was… I’m at home here. I love it, even if Kurt and Rachel are so damn naïve it makes my breasts ache with rage, I have love for them, and … and … and I was moving on and I finally was in a place where I wanted to-“ Her eyes flicker up, meet Quinn’s, and the words die in Santana’s mouth. 

Quinn can only stare back at her, vision clouded with her own angry emotion. 

“It’s funny,” Santana whispers after a moment. “I always thought that if I ever heard her say that, I would know exactly what to do. What I wanted.” 

Quinn can only manage one question, parroted back at the person who first asked it of her. “What do you want, Santana?” 

Santana, a picture of tragic beauty, has no strength for anything but just a simple, sad smile. “I thought I knew.” 

It’s impossible to hide how her eyes sparkle with her miserable wetness. “I guess maybe you should figure it out,” she chokes, impressed with herself for even managing that. 

She doesn’t stare at the screen, until she hears a soft, bitter chuckle and hears Santana answer shortly, “You first.” 

\--

In retrospect, maybe it would have been easier, if she and Santana hadn’t talked at all. 

It’s ridiculous, because they’re growing up, becoming adults, and discussing everything like adults would is the mature and sensible thing to do. They had issues, they voiced them. There are no more misunderstandings. Everything about that night was explained and … technically forgiven. 

The SKYPE call ended with a fragile formality. The corners of Quinn’s eyes crinkled as she managed a smile and flicked her fingers at Santana in a wordless goodbye. 

But this adult and reasonably mature conversation has left her more hollow and unsure than ever before. 

She hates that it’s the knowledge that made this worse. It’s silly to think that she once thought that everything would get better once she EXPLAINED. 

It’s not better. Quinn envies her previous ignorance. 

At least before, Quinn hadn’t known the real reason behind Brittany’s suddenly about face and resolve to win Santana back. She didn’t understand her motives. She didn’t know that in Brittany’s act of desperation, her first impulse has been to call Santana, not her current (ex, actually. Sam posted a gloomy FB update informing everyone of the break up not long after) boyfriend, and that Santana went without question or hesitation. She didn’t know that Santana was so eerily aware of how Quinn might react to this that she actively tried to keep her from knowing.

It’s just … 

She hates that she has this awareness now. She hates that she CARES as much as she does, because she and Brittany aren’t friends anymore. Not really. 

Texts with Santana are now sporadic at best. Quinn tries, and she knows Santana does too, but there’s a heaviness in their interactions. There’s this ridiculous uncertainty, nowhere for either to stand comfortably. Nothing is easy, not like before. Texts are too careful, too formal. There are no half-naked pictures of Santana, too tipsy from a night out with her bartending co-workers. Just awkward hellos and good-mornings, and the occasional rant about a boss, and a little more concerning, more and more texts about Santana’s hate boner for Brody. 

She’s not sure she understands that. There didn’t seem to be a lot going on in that pretty head of his, but she will always remember the quiet conversation they had at the bar in Callbacks, the simple, sweet way Brody assuaged her fears. 

The freshman shrink (thank you, David) in Quinn thinks maybe that Santana has decided to focus on Brody in an attempt to keep from focusing on anything else, and Quinn wishes she could blame her. 

She doesn’t. Quinn wishes she actually had a similar distraction. 

They had a mature and honest conversation, but it just serves as a bitter reminder that Quinn isn’t nearly as mature she pretends to be. She’s just past a teenager. Barely an adult. Her childhood and innocence have long since been ripped away from her with wine coolers and an empty promise, and Quinn resents that so badly. 

Why can’t she be immature? Crazy again? Quinn always had plans, and this… God, this deserves a plan. 

The impulse is seeded inside her so deeply. 

She wants to call Brittany and scream. To be a completely jealous hag and yell that the rules of Finders Keepers very much apply here. Santana and Brittany broke up because their relationship wasn’t working anymore, and then Brittany broke Santana’s heart just as badly as Santana broke hers by marrying Sam, and shit like that doesn’t get reversed just because the world doesn’t end and people forget to wear a condom. 

“I’ll do it,” Tabitha tells her when she hears the entire sordid drama, eyes wide and round and completely in her element as the supportive best friend. “I’ll tell her to back the fuck off, and that she lost her chance. Santana’s yours now, Quinn. Stake your fucking claim!” 

It’s really sweet, in an obscene way, and Quinn pays her back for the loyalty by putting the fear of God in “one night stand” guy, who had ‘fun’ with Tabitha and wants to keep hooking up but only at his convenience. 

But it also proves that she should never, EVER, listen to Tabitha when it comes to serious matters of the heart. Because yes, she wants to do all those things, and there would be something immensely satisfying about all of it, in a terribly petty way, but God, she gets it. 

Quinn can’t forget, not for one day, not for an hour, that she was Brittany once. She made a crappy decision because she was young and felt fat, and the consequences were devastating. And because she was young and stupid and terrified, she clung to the familiar, stung at the very idea of being tied to someone like Puck for the rest of her life.

Maybe it’s not exactly the same. She didn’t love Finn, not like Brittany claims to love Santana. And Brittany dodged a bullet, because she isn’t pregnant. 

But there’s enough there to feel the sickening familiar nausea of horror. 

How can she hate Brittany when she understands her in a way she never has before? 

It leaves Quinn paralyzed, and she hates it. She was paralyzed once. She swore to never let herself feel that way again. 

\--

“So what,” Nina asks her after about a week of ‘mooning’, shoving chips in her mouth and eying her suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be all ‘Martyr’ now and give up Santana just because her ex-girlfriend got frights.” 

Quinn narrows her eyes and replays the sentence in her mind so that it makes sense. When Nina gets overstimulated on too much sugar, she loses her ability to properly use American slang or even proper grammar. This, Quinn has come to learn, happens at least four or five times a semester when the tests pile up and Nina goes without regular sleep for more than two days. 

Quinn shakes her head, wishing she could be more amused by the picture that Nina is presenting, hunched over the cafeteria table and sucking on her Coke with a straw. 

“I’m not nearly that selfless,” she admits, quietly thoughtful and more open than she normally would be. There’s a very good chance her sleep-deprived friend will not even remember this conversation tomorrow. She supposes that it helps. “I don’t want to give up on Santana. That’s always been a problem with me. I’m kinda stupid about this sorta thing.” 

“What sorta thing?” 

Quinn doesn’t answer. Instead she thinks about Finn, and Rachel and that stupid love triangle that she was so determined to put herself in, even if she knew, since that first day, that Finn would never pick anyone but Rachel. 

She thinks about Sam, stupidly sweet Sam, who swore he loved her, and the easy way she trampled on his big innocent heart, taking him for granted until she hurt him too many times and he left her for Santana. 

And Puck, God, Puck, who tugged at something inside of her, who made her smile against her will with his stupid dimples, who told her everything she wanted her hear and backed up exactly none of it. Who said he wanted her until he had her and then decided she wasn’t worth the effort. 

She had clung to all of them, until they had drowned her deep. 

“I know what I want,” she admits instead. Someone’s carved a scratch on the table top, a series of hearts with the initials “ZL”. Quinn traces the etchings with her fingernail and tries not to think about the germs that are probably hiding in all those crooks and crannies. “But it’s not really up to me anymore.” 

It’s not. Not really. This is all Santana. And God, Quinn wants to be chosen. She wants Santana so badly. 

But does she even deserve that when she’s too much of a coward to even try to tell Santana how she feels? 

When one mention of Brittany sends her tumbling off any security foothold she has and leads her to outing herself on Facebook with a random brunette she can barely remember? 

It’s stupid, that Santana knows her as well as she does. 

How can she ask Santana to make a choice when Quinn won’t commit to one either? 

When Nina doesn’t answer, Quinn lifts her head, and notices that Nina has now crinkled her Cool Ranch Doritos bag and is studying the front of it with an odd level of intensity. “What are you doing?” 

Nina cocks her head like a Golden Retriever, and turns the package over to present the logo to Quinn. “In Germany, this flavor is called ‘Cool American’,” she informs her sagely. 

Quinn blinks, but Nina is dead serious. 

She has no idea why, but for some reason, that little fact is suddenly the most annoying, amusing thing on the planet. 

“Are you kidding?” she laughs despite herself, shoulders shaking as Nina opens the nearly empty back and searches for more crumbs. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“It’s not ridiculous,” Nina snaps, affronted. “It’s delicious! ‘Cool American’s are delicious!” 

It’s such a _wanky_ statement, and Quinn decides that she really has been spending too much time thinking about Santana, because she replies without hesitation, “Oh trust me, I know.” 

It takes a moment to sink in, but when Nina’s eyes go wide with horror, Quinn finds herself collapsing against the cafeteria table top in hysterical giggles, ducking away from the wadded up bag that comes flying at her as her friend screeches, “TMZ, TMZ!” 

She means TMI, and that only makes Quinn laugh harder. 

\--

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and Quinn is in a furious rush, terribly late to a class that’s a fifteen minute walk away from her dorm, when her phone buzzes. 

Checking for the caller, no matter how busy she is, has become a real problem habit that she wants to try and break. Every time that phone buzzes, she gets the stupid hope that it’s Santana calling, and it always disappointed and a little heartbroken when it’s not.

It’s masochistic at best, but Quinn checks it every single time. 

This time, the caller that sinks Quinn’s heart is Rachel. 

It’s not Santana, but Quinn wonders if it’s a testament to how lovesick she truly is, that she’s running as late as she is and picks up the phone anyway, on the off chance that this is about Rachel’s ornery roommate.

It doesn’t mean she’s exactly kind when she picks up. “Rachel, I’m not in the mood for another one of your emergencies,” she snaps, and hobbles as she tries to stretch and dig her foot into her boot. 

“Santana is driving me crazy, and I’m pretty sure this all your fault.” 

The name does its damage. Quinn’s heart leaps and her ankle turns. With a yelp of pain, Quinn flails for a moment, but thankfully, there are still SOME Cheerios instincts left inside of her because she manages to catch herself on her desk before her head plants into it and she gives herself another concussion. 

“Quinn?” 

“Rachel?” she huffs, righting herself. “What are you talking about?” 

“Ever since she got back from Lima she’s been obsessed with proving that Brody is a drug dealer,” Rachel actually sounds furious. “And it’s exhausting, Quinn. I’m trying my very best to try and keep things in perspective, but this has got to stop.” 

Rachel is rushing her words together, enunciation clipped so cleanly that it sounds almost like she’s back on that decongestant that everyone got hooked on sophomore year of high school. 

Ankle still twinging, Quinn drops her backback in desperation and hobbles to the bed. “Rachel-“ 

“She found a wad of money of Brody’s when she was going through all his stuff-“ 

Quinn settles on the bed and frowns in confusion. “How could she be going through HIS stuff?” She desperately hopes that Santana hasn’t decided to become an actual burglar and add breaking and entering to her felony count. 

Rachel pauses for only a moment. “He moved in.” 

“What?!” she squeaks, because that is NOT something she heard. 

“That’s not the point right now,” Rachel says, dismissing Quinn’s obvious disapproval with an annoyed huff. 

Quinn blinks. “Okay,” she answers with a peeved sigh, because honestly she cares infinitely more about how this affects Santana, than Rachel and her obsession with moving strangers into her loft. “What’s the point?” 

“The point is that she’s so obsessed with the idea that she’s violated almost every point of the roommate agreement! “ The damned roommate agreement. Quinn wonders if she should bother rolling her eyes when Rachel isn’t here to see it. “She’s making Brody uncomfortable, she’s driving me crazy, she’s embarrassed me and Kurt-“ 

“What?” Quinn sputters, suddenly lost. “How?” 

“She went to NYADA and performed a Paula Abdul song in the middle of class.” 

“What?!” 

“Quinn, we kicked her out.” 

It’s too much, too soon. Quinn can’t quite process it. Her mouth gapes like a fish, and when it sinks in, it’s astonishing the level of pure fury that fills her. “You what?!” 

Rachel must hear the anger in Quinn’s hiss. She must, because suddenly the other girl begins to stammer, “I know, okay! It just… it got out of control! I got mad, and Kurt was just livid and… Santana was CRAZY, Quinn.” 

Quinn’s heart begins to pound. She feels so helpless, sitting on her stupid bed in her stupid dorm room, while she envisions the way this must have unfolded, and how it could have ended up in a scenario where Santana Lopez, who has always felt disposable, would get kicked out of the loft she was so happily welcomed into just over a month before. 

“Rachel, she has nowhere to go!” She’s yelling now, but she can’t help it. Every thought is now of Santana, alone in New York, kicked out of a place with people she admits that she loves, and God-

“That’s why I called you!” Rachel says hastily. “I... I can’t reach her. She won’t pick up her phone, and-“ 

Quinn forgets about her class. The quiz that she knows will be impossible to make up. “I’m coming to New York.” 

“Quinn.” 

Quinn pushes her to desk and types rapidly on her keyboard, pulling up the train schedule. “I’m taking the four pm train,” she announces, grimacing at the odd angle the phone is in, perched against her ear. “Pick me up in three hours. We’re going to find her together.” 

She wonders if Rachel is going to fight her on this. Rachel is probably still furious, and she must have been pushed hard if she had gone as far as she did. 

“Okay,” Rachel says instead, and Quinn is thankful, at the very least, for that. “See you soon, Quinn.” 

The call disconnects, and Quinn reaches for her backpack, removing books and throwing them on her bed. 

\--

She packs with a precision she doesn’t remember ever really having. Only the essentials get thrown into her pack, and Quinn kicks off her boots for comfortable flats. In her head, she is already in New York, filing away every bit of information Santana ever fed her. The friends that Santana has mentioned, the bars and areas she’s coming to know, Santana’s place of work, every location where Santana could go. 

She looks at her phone and wishes desperately for a call for Santana, but for some reason, Quinn knows it won’t come. Santana at her most vulnerable is almost her isolated. And their relationship… friendship… whatever it is, is so unsteady right now. 

Santana is not the type to admit vulnerability or ask for help. They are so alike in that way, and it’s for that reason, Quinn knows she has to go. She has to find Santana. She has to make sure she’s okay. 

She trusts no one else with her heart, and Santana? Santana is her heart. 

She’s rushed again, this time to make her train, as she stuffs her phone in her purse and pulls the backpack over her shoulder, heading for her door to pull it open and be on her way. 

She opens the door, and is suddenly gobsmacked at the unexpected obstacle that stands in her way. 

In her door way, hand up and poised as if ready to knock, is Santana Lopez herself. 

She’s a heavenly apparition, tempting and almost too good to be true. Quinn is completely still, eyes on the other woman, until Santana’s hand lowers, moist dark eyes taking her in.

“Santana,” she breathes, and the other woman, dressed in a tight skirt that borders on indecent and a leather jacket, just shrugs and offers a crooked smile that appears so valiant, Quinn’s heart breaks. 

This isn’t an apparition. This is Santana at her most human, coming to her door with a pillow and a blanket, and heels that are so inappropriate it’s devastating. 

The backpack drops along with her purse, and Quinn is driven by instinct. There is nothing between them now but space.

So she closes the distance, fingers digging into Santana’s dark locks and tugging in, until Santana falls into her arms and into her lips.


	17. Try To Tell You ‘No’

There is a sweetness to Santana that’s almost surprising. Her tongue is usually so vicious, so acerbic, one almost expects a tang in her taste, like there should be a bitterness to match the slickness of her mean words.

But as Quinn’s fingers tangle in the sweaty nape of Santana’s neck, as her eyes flutter closed, as she’s driven by pure instinct, and her mouth slides hungrily across Santana’s, all she rediscovers is that sweetness.

Santana sighs against her mouth, like this is unexpected, but she eagerly follows her, matching her for every kiss, hands clutching at Quinn’s shoulders, keeping her in pressed tight, flush against her as Quinn dominates her with her mouth: a passionate, carnal embrace.

It’s not until Quinn hears a whoops and a ‘oh shit!’ followed by too-excited male laughter, that she realizes that they’re legitimately making out in the middle of the hallway, in full view of every single one of her co-ed dorm mates.

Oddly, even that isn’t enough to stop her, not at first. Santana is the one to pull back first, just enough to separate their lips by less than an inch as she breathes heavy against Quinn’s mouth, head tilting against Quinn’s temple. Her eyes don’t open.

She’s shivering.

Quinn’s fingers rub rhythmically over Santana’s shoulders and down her arms, head lifting to see the goggling boys down the hall and the way they’re falling all over each other and distributing idiotic high fives to each other.

Quinn flushes, suddenly angry.

This isn’t for them.

Within seconds she’s tugged Santana through her open doorway and dragged in the rest of her stuff.

The door closes and she shuts out the world.

Her body has yet to catch up to their circumstances. Her heart is pounding. Quinn is over-excited and over-stimulated, and now, even the two feet away from Santana feels like too much distance.

She wants to taste her again, to feel her against her, but she’s frozen.

Even though they’re here in her room with the world shut out, Quinn finds herself falling into old habits. She slumps against the door, and only stares.

Santana looks to be no better. Shifting in her leather boots, Santana’s eyes rove over the dorm room as if she’s seeing it again for the first time. With a hard swallow, Quinn’s fingers clutch against the doorknob for support, and lets her look.

Her heart is in her throat, and she’s choked on her own breath, and just looking at Santana, flesh and blood and here in her own space, seems enough to make her weak-kneed.

“Going somewhere?” Santana’s eyes fall on the backpack and Quinn’s purse, strewn and forgotten on the floor.

Quinn’s laugh is almost hysterical. “I was going to find you.” Santana’s eyes dart up to catch onto her own.

“But I was coming here,” she states, and it’s so obvious and stupid that Quinn can’t help but roll her eyes.

“I noticed that,” she says, and digs her teeth into her kiss-swollen lower lip, tasting Santana’s sweet gloss that’s been smeared onto her mouth. “How did you even –“

“I stole Rachel’s pass.” Quinn’s mouth twitches at that information. “What?” Santana snaps, overly defensive in a way that shouldn’t be so damn endearing. “Bitch had it coming.”

Santana’s chin lifts defiantly, and the amused smirk on Quinn’s face fades. She remembers now, Rachel’s phone call and the circumstances surrounding why Santana is even here in the first place.

Like always, there are a thousand things to discuss. She and Santana will never have enough talking, and it’s frustrating. She and Santana have issues of their own to work out, because they both have choices to make, and the name _Brittany_   still hangs in the air between them.

But aside from their own drama, the million things that still are left unanswered, now there is this Brody situation. She needs to understand how it escalated as far as it did. How Kurt and Rachel went from championing Santana and her introduction to New York to demanding she leave.

But it’s so difficult to think about any of that when she looks upon Santana in that tight dress that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. The way her calves fill out those long black boots. That dark look in those dangerous brown eyes.

This is the woman who went to Rachel and Kurt’s school and challenged Rachel’s boyfriend to a singing duel?

How can Santana be both the sexiest and yet most ridiculously dork person she’s ever known?

“Did you really go to NYADA and perform a Paula Abdul song?” Maybe it’s a testament to the depth of Quinn’s devotion, because though there is a twinge of disbelief in her voice, the expression she gives Santana is indulgent and affectionate.

“Excuse me, I killed that song.”

In the past month, she’s wondered if leaving Santana with Kurt and Rachel was an invitation to war. They’ve continiually surprised her with all how the three of them seem to fit. It isn’t until now, as she pictures Santana barging into NYADA and making her point with a diva-like song, that she realizes why they go together so naturally.

Santana is no different from Rachel and Kurt. They’re literally three pees in a pod.

“I’m sure you did,” she nods agreeably, and watches as Santana’s mouth slowly spreads into a smirk.

There is a difference, of course. Kurt and Rachel may be finally growing out of their ugly duckling phases, but they haven’t quite achieved the mastery of their sex appeal that comes as easily to Santana as breathing.

The adrenaline that had initially coursed through her during their intense reunion make out session has faded somewhat, but what’s left behind is this hunger. Quinn’s fingers twitch against the doorknob that she clutches, and once again, she marvels at the effect Santana has on her. Physically, she’s just another body. Just another person that she’s known for years. Her high school nemesis. Someone she’s dismissed as a slut and at one point even thought she hated.

That was before, of course. Before Quinn understood the demons they were both fighting. Before Quinn emerged from her dark cloud of bitterness and realized that Santana had been by her side in some form or another for years.

She doesn’t hate Santana. Not anymore.

Far from it.

And now she’s hungry. She’s thirsty. Quinn salivates; she can still taste her on her lips. As if on instinct, Quinn’s tongue darts out to swipe along her lower lip. She watches the way Santana’s dark eyes grow almost black, pupils dilating as they follow the movement.

Santana wants her too.

It’s gratifying, to know she’s not the only one affected. There’s nothing but invitation in the way Santana stares.

So Quinn stays put, legs locked and flats pressing against the floor. She finds herself curious now, to see what Santana will do in the wake of this open and obvious intense sexual attraction.

This isn’t a SKYPE call for a text conversation or even over the phone. They’re here now, together, and the last time they were alone they were naked and the air was pungent with the smell of their consummated lust.

Will Santana take what she wants? Does she want Quinn to do it first?

God, Quinn isn’t sure what is more appealing: to be ravished or to peel that flimsy leather jacket off of Santana’s shoulders and do the ravishing herself.

“Hi Quinn.”

Quinn inhales sharply, biting down a moan at the low register of Santana’s voice. The way Santana makes her desire so blatant with nothing more than a decibel?

It’s really, really hot.

“Hi,” she whispers. It’s only one word, but Quinn knows that her voice trembles with want, giving herself away.

Apparently that is enough of a green light for Santana Lopez.

With a smile that seems more predatory than friendly, Santana advances upon her, step by step. It takes only seconds, and yet Quinn is transfixed, fascinated at how it seems to take forever and yet no time at all for Santana to suddenly be lightly pressed against Quinn’s heated body, lips millimeters from Quinn’s own.

The soft breath that drifts across her skin is intoxicating.

True to form, Quinn reacts with a telltale shiver. She bites down an obvious moan when she feels the distinct friction of Santana’s breasts shifting lightly against her own, a true tease. Layers of fabric, bras and dresses, provide a barrier between them, and yet Quinn feels that movement so keenly… so close and yet not nearly enough.

“I think you missed me,” Santana whispers, hot breath against her cheek, fingers light and torturous as they skim across her left breast, rubbing tantalizing against Quinn’s clothed nipple.

Santana’s confidence has returned, and with it, her intoxicating playfulness. Quinn remembers it well, even if she had only one night to learn how Santana is during lovemaking. The way Santana would touch with those fleeting, teasing impulses, proud and cocky because it was her fingers and her body that dismantled Quinn Fabray, former Head Bitch In Charge, so completely.

There’s an urge to resist it. Quinn has her pride after all. But they haven’t been with each other since New Years and now there has been more than a month of nothing but thoughts, and she has no interest in games.

She waited and was rational and what did it get her? A surprise pregnancy scare and the emergence of Brittany. A stupid Facebook post and weeks of uncertainty of where things stood between them.

Fuck that. Quinn acknowledges a very obvious truth: she did miss Santana. She missed her so terribly.

There is more than just desire at work here. There is genuine need, an ache to feel Santana’s mouth fitted so perfectly against hers, and it whittles away at Quinn’s hesitation.

Quinn lurches forward, ready to reconnect, only to discover nothing but air.

The lack of contact is maddening. Blinking in frustration, Quinn discovers that Santana has ducked back, just out of her reach. Santana’s eyes sparkle with sadistic mirth.

“Santana,” she snaps because she’s not in the mood to be teased. At least she tries to infer that, but then Santana leans in and veers down, away from her mouth and those pillowy soft lips settle lightly against Quinn’s sensitive jaw instead.

The sensation is so overwhelming that a tiny, whiny, petulant moan erupts from Quinn. It’s a sound she didn’t even know she was capable of making.

Santana’s surprised, pleased chuckle tells her she didn’t realize it either, and Quinn would hate her for it, if not for the way that sinful mouth just presses in lower, increasing the pressure of those heated kisses that settle in to suck against Quinn’s pale throat.

It’s still a tease: just the tiniest bit of suction, followed by a wet swipe of a tongue that paints the area so reverently, but it snaps Quinn’s head back, banging almost painfully against the heavy wood of her door.

“Hmmm,” Santana hums, causing the most delicious vibration against Quinn’s skin. “I missed you too, Quinn.”

She inhales against Quinn’s skin, sucking in her scent, predatory like a wild animal.

Fuck. With surprising strength, Quinn’s fingers fly off the doorknob she’s been clenching as her makeshift life raft, digging fingers into dark brown locks and tugging up, until Santana is off balance and falling into her.

Their lips mash together clumsily. Quinn feels the twinge of pain as Santana’s canine bashes against her upper lip, but God, she doesn’t care. Not when Santana’s moan is swallowed by her mouth, stifled by her tongue.

She’ll never get enough of kissing Santana Lopez.

It’s the oddest sense of déjà vu, to remember in the heat of this that it was almost two months earlier their first kiss was on the opposite side of this door, the product of a drunken evening that ended with Santana crying on the floor of her dorm and Quinn pressed against the wood, half furious and really drunk and completely sure that nothing would ever be the same again.

“Quinn,” Santana slurs, a whimpering whine that mumbles against her mouth.

This is different. This is a reconnection. Santana is sober and Quinn’s intoxicated by lust, and there is no going back from this. Santana’s kissing her so hungrily, wet and deep, because she missed her. Because she wants her.

That invisible ghost of Brittany seems shoved away in this moment, and Quinn doesn’t want her back.

“I want you,” she confesses, and Santana huffs against her mouth, shuddering.

Separates their lips with an audible smack, Santana’s dark pupils are blown as she fumbles down the front of Quinn’s dress, frantic in her movements.

“Quinn, fuck you and these fucking buttons!”

Dizzy, Quinn blinks down to hazily discover the lapels of her button-down dress already being pushed to either side of her torso, exposing her white bra and the pale skin of her bosom.

Santana is not gentle or delicate. She does only the bare minimum, and as a result, Quinn’s arms are trapped by the fabric that’s been shoved unceremoniously down her shoulders. Quinn wants to protest, but any lingering concern quickly dissipates when Santana’s head lowers and her teeth drags along Quinn’s collar, moving steadily downward.

Quinn feels branded.

She arches, back bowing against the door the moment Santana’s mouth bites down on the exposed flesh of her breasts. She hears an approving mumble, a shuddering breath, and then she remembers the Cheerios, their years in Glee Club, the way she simply KNOWS Santana’s movements. There’s a concentrated tag-team effort that suddenly begins as Santana’s mouth sucks marks on the top of her left breast and her hands lift up under her skirt, just as Quinn awkwardly begins to shrug the dress down off her arms and to her hips.

Santana’s head lifts; their mouths connect again and she takes over, fingers wrapping over the wrinkled fabric at her waist, shoving it down until Quinn’s dress floats down to her legs.

Santana’s so invested she’s almost clumsy. Quinn nearly trips on her wedges, but Santana’s tongue sinking wetly into her mouth seems to steady her, right until the moment Santana’s fingers cup against her underneath her dress and press in against the fabric covering it, pressing into her over the barrier.

There’s a moan, and Quinn thinks it came from her, but it could be from Santana, because she knows they both feel it. GOD, how did Santana get her this wet this quickly?

There is a part of Quinn that wants so badly for Santana to take her the way she took her the first time in New York, against a wall, fingers reaching so deeply inside her that she’s literally impaled and focused on nothing else but the way they sink in and out of her.

But they’ve only ever had one night, and it’s not enough. Not when she’s spent the nights craving her best friend, when she’s daydreamed during study breaks, fantasized about what she would do if she had Santana back in her arms in this room.

So when Santana drags her bra straps down her shoulders and exposes her breast, Quinn takes advantage of Santana’s revised focus, and shoves so forcefully at Santana’s shoulders that the other girl has no choice but to stumble back, tripping on her own boots.

She lands exactly where Quinn wanted her, splayed back on her bed, breathless and surprised and pissed off at the interruption.

“Quinn,” she snaps, “What the fuck?!”

It’s so easy to be intoxicated by this shift. Quinn imagines them suddenly in high school, Cheerios logos emblazoned across their chests, and wonders if late night practices and ego battles would have ended quite differently if THIS has happened differently.

“Shut up,” she orders in the exact same voice that she would have used as Cheer Captain.

Santana, a creature of habit, shuts up.

Quinn Fabray, smirking at the look of befuddlement on Santana’s face, takes a moment to kick herself out of the dress that’s around her wedges. Without hesitation, she reaches behind and unclasps her bra, letting it fall along with he dress.

Her eyes stay on Santana the entire time.

If there’s any sort of protest that comes out of Santana, it’s not here now. Santana just watches, lips parted and eyes wide, drinking in Quinn and the easy way she advances toward her.

With an easy nudge, Quinn knees Santana’s legs opens and steps in between them, lowering herself down on top of her lover.

Her eyes close as their foreheads tip against each other and Quinn revels in the sensation, the way Santana fells back and lets her sink on top of her.

Fuck, it’s been too long.

A harsh inhalation, and then their mouths meet in a forceful and passionate kiss.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” she hears, feels the pull of her hair as Santana digs fingers into her nape.

Quinn’s lips smirk into the next kiss.

“Don’t shut up then,” she whispers, eyes fluttering open to study Santana, beautiful Santana, with her dark hair spread against her comforter and her fingers open and seeking against her neck. “Be loud,” she adds, and shifts palming naked thighs as she shifts them further apart, opening Santana up against her. “Let me hear you.”

The dress rides up, following Quinn’s seeking fingers, until she encounters the band of Santana’s thong (and of course it’s a thong), and pulls with a harsh tug. The fabric stretches until it’s past the firm and shapely ass, and jerked down Santana’s thighs.

The smell of Santana’s arousal hits her so abruptly that Quinn’s mouth literally waters.

Below her, Santana is a goddess. Her ample chest rises and falls so rapidly, her stomach muscles contract underneath that tight dress that is now bunched about her waist, and her legs… they open so readily.

She’s exposed and open and GLISTENING, and Quinn can’t help but be transfixed, hush with wonder as she reaches between them and hums with appreciation as she slides fingers into the wetness.

“You want me,” she growls, and it’s almost shocking, how … primitive she sounds.

“Fuck Quinn,” she hears as hips buck up against her, a spasm of desperation. “I want you so much.”

The blood pounds in her ears, and Quinn has no more patience for teasing. With eyes locked onto Santana’s expression, Quinn settles down, knees falling against her carpeted floor and lowers her head for between Santana’s thighs.

Santana cries out against her the moment Quinn’s tongue presses in against that soft, slippery flesh, and Quinn, raised Christian, decides that her faith in God will never truly be shaken.

Not when He’s created them with the capacity for feeling like this.

\--

Quinn’s twin bed doesn’t compare the large king mattress that they shared in that New York boutique hotel on New Years Eve, but Quinn does not have it in her to complain. She doesn’t want or need the extra room. The tinier the bed is, the closer Santana gets to her, and that’s good. That’s amazing.

Santana agrees, she thinks. Since they’ve collapsed against each other in sated, sweaty climax, Santana has made no attempt to move away from her. They’re plastered together, as intimate in this embrace as they were in the seconds after Quinn made Santana come, when Santana didn’t even wait for her trembling muscles to subside before shifting up on the bed and roughly shoving Quinn down on all fours, nearly ripping apart Quinn’s panties to sink three fingers into her from behind.

Even after all this time, Quinn is discovering new things about Santana, and one of those new things is that Santana has apparently long since harbored a healthy appreciation for Quinn’s ass.

Quinn has absolutely no problem with being appreciated that way. The way Santana took her was both carnal and rough, but it was electrifying. She didn’t feel overwhelmed, as she tended to do when David had tried to take her that way, but instead found herself arching back, reveling in the sensation of Santana’s sharp teeth on her spine and the drag of hard nipples on her back, filled the point of almost pain (that was somehow oh so pleasurable) as Santana thrust into her from behind.

Her orgasm hit her so hard she had actually collapsed from the effort, falling face first into her blankets, huffing with exertion as she felt Santana hump her ass, grinding against her with an enthusiasm that brought her to the edge again, and tipped her over the second Santana slid possessive fingers around her hip and rubbed furious circles at her clit.

She never understood the term ‘blacking out’ from sex until she found herself battling from falling out of consciousness, mind literally blown from the force of her consecutive releases.

Boneless, Quinn had no strength left to do anything but flop herself over and attempt to recover as Santana fell in against her, pressing wet, distracted kisses against her neck, cheek and lips before sucking in a lungful of air and whispering, “Holy shit.”

She’s not sure how long it’s been since then, but neither girl has made any attempt to move from their intimate embrace.

Quinn’s got her breath back, but the euphoria that runs through her veins is enough not to really care about the wet stickiness that lingers between her thighs and her sudden need for water. Santana doesn’t move, and so Quinn doesn’t either.

Santana hasn’t said a word. She seems content to settle heavily against Quinn, breathing tufts of air lightly across Quinn’s collarbone as she curls fingers around Quinn’s waist and splays her long naked legs over Quinn’s thighs.

She’s wrapped herself around Quinn and in Quinn’s arms, and for some reason, the action itself is precious for Quinn. She wants to hold Santana… she likes that Santana’s tinier, that she fits against her so easily, solid and firm but not overwhelmingly heavy. It reminds her again of New Years Eve in the piano bar, and how she marveled at the way she could hold Santana, how one look at them could make no mistake of what they were to each other.

This is precious and the tell-tale thump of Quinn’s heart seems only to cement it.

So she keeps her eyes on the ceiling and lets out a low, solid breath, waiting for Santana to either drift off or recover from her long, long day. She allows herself the comfort of touch. Fingers drift silently over Santana’s bare shoulders, lightly tracing circles against the tan skin.

Music streams from her computer, happily drowning out the noise of her coeds as they run up and down the hall outside of her room. One of them raps lightly on the door and then bursts into laughter, obviously being a dick on purpose. Quinn ignores it. She knows exactly what they think she’s doing in here with the hot brunette that showed up at her door.

Honestly, she’s more than a little proud that what they’ve done is exactly what they think.

Is this what it feels like to be Puck?

“So Brody’s a prostitute.”

Quinn’s fingers pause. It takes a moment to make sense of that statement. “What?”

That question settles into the quiet as one song ends and another begins. Quinn feels the soft pressure of lips against the top of her breast before there’s a shift in her arms, as Santana’s head lifts and the other girl regards her soberly. “He’s a gigalo,” she answers, tangling her fingers on Quinn’s chest and resting her chin on top of them. “Like Magic Mike,” she elaborates, brows waggling up and down like Charlie Chaplin. “But for money.”

It’s… quite an accusation. Brody… a hooker? God, it’s so difficult to even comprehend it, and Quinn has to tamp down the instinctive urge to scoff, and tell Santana that that’s absolutely absurd. She manages it, however, because the look that Santana is giving her leaves no room for doubt. Despite her wanky words, Santana is absolutely certain.

Quinn hates to admit it, but experience has taught her that when it comes to this sort of thing, Santana’s instincts tend to be right on, and are usually followed up with proof.

Quinn has the bout with mono to prove it.

So she instead asks the other obvious question. “And you tried to tell Rachel?”

Santana’s expression sours at the mention of their mutual friend. “What do you think?” she asks, with a ‘duh’ in her tone. “Of course I did.” Santana’s voice is hoarse from exertion. Her naked body shifts against Quinn, shifting her weight, and Quinn bites her lip at the reminder of how intimate they’re being. “She didn’t believe me. But you know what? Fuck it.” It’s a flippant remark, as Santana seems to distract herself by reaching up and plucking at an errant bang that’s tickling Quinn’s cheek, smoothing it behind her ear. “She’s been such a bitch to me lately that I’ve kinda stopped caring.”

A few months ago, Quinn may have taken Santana at her word. She knows better now. Maybe it’s a sign of growth, but she marvels at how easy to it to look into those expressive dark eyes that flutter so close to her own, and discover the hurt that hides with them. It’s so obvious now, even in the way Santana’s voice trembles with effort to appear so uncaring.

God, just the thought makes Quinn’s chest throb with empathy. Unable to help herself, she spreads fingers comfortingly over Santana’s naked back, rubbing at the soft skin reassuringly. “Santana…”

Already vulnerable, Santana must mistake her sympathy for reproach, because she just scoffs defensively, lurching up, forcing her hands still. “Look, I called Finn. I told him what was going down and I set up a sting at a local hotel room where Brody was supposed to be meeting a client. Brody can dig his own grave, and Finn can figure out what to do about it.” She shrugs. “Whatever happens now? That’s on them.”

It’s a vicious plan, and as Quinn thinks it over, she can easily consider a thousand different ways it could go wrong. She doesn’t know how Brody handles confrontation, but Finn isn’t exactly known for controlling his temper, especially when Rachel is concerned.

They lost quite a few chairs in Glee Club to Finn and his penchant for kicking them.

Not that this is necessarily exactly out of character for Santana Lopez. No one would ever argue that Santana is a saint. And Quinn doesn’t have much of a moral high ground to stand on. She was the girl who was so caught up in a plan to steal back her daughter that she was perfectly willing to send a good mother to jail, after all.

But New York seems so very far away, and it’s so difficult to imagine Brody, at least the Brody she remembers, being capable of this level of deceit.

With a sigh, she lowers her head back onto the pillow and lets it sink in. “So you really found proof?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” Santana snaps after a moment, more defensive than she should be. “What you don’t believe me?”

Sensitive Santana at her finest. Quinn fights the urge to roll her eyes at Santana’s insecure dramatics, and instead locks her fingers at the small of Santana’s back, keeping her close as she lifts her head and shuts up any huffing diatribe with a long, slow kiss.

“Of course I do,” she murmurs, cementing her words with another peck against those kiss-swollen lips. “I just… I mean granted I don’t know him that well, but when I met the guy, he seemed really into Rachel. Why would he lie to her like that?”

To her credit, Santana actually seems to consider that, before she sighs and presses her mouth distractingly against Quinn’s bare shoulder, resettling herself against Quinn. “We all lie for some reason, right?”

Yeah, that’s true. Quinn should know the extent that one will go to when one is trying to cover up a massive lie. But being a prostitute? Quinn frowns at the implications. “God,” she finds herself uttering, when a particularly garish thought occurs to her. “Rachel should really get tested,” she breathes.

Santana doesn’t seem to have the patience to even consider that. “Oh Fuck Rachel,” she snaps with such active annoyance Quinn winces in response. “I was completely pissed at her for sticking her big beak where it didn’t belong when it came to me and you, and yet I still tried to help her with this Brody shit, and what’s my thank you?” She shoves off of Quinn, naked and uncaring as she sits up, smoothing her unruly hair away from her face in a frustrated motion. “Picking his word over mine. Kicking me out of the loft.” Santana’s head shakes defiantly. “Screw her. Getting the clap from his philandering ass would be the least amount of karma she deserves.”

It’s so garishly acidic, that Quinn finds herself frowning in response. Wow, Rachel really hurt Santana. Like… REALLY hurt Santana.

How close have Rachel and Santana gotten that Rachel even has the capacity to hurt her this much?

It’s maybe more than a little ridiculous that she feels almost insecure over it.

Actually it’s completely ridiculous, considering that a few weeks ago, Santana was more than a little jealous of Rachel’s friendship with HER.

Inhaling softly, Quinn mimics Santana’s posture, pushing up against her pillow and lifting her knees to hug them against her chest. Her eyes are wide and soft as the studies her beautiful lover, sitting and wallowing in her petulant pout.

“She’s sorry,” she announces quietly, and gets a disbelieving huff as a response. “She is,” she insists. “How do you even think I found out about you leaving? She called me, telling me she couldn’t find you. She regrets what she did.”

Santana thumbs patterns against her sheets, soaking that in. “Yeah well, she should.”

It’s not much, but at least it’s a start. Quinn regards the other woman, watches as Santana leans back against her dorm wall and blows a lock of her hair out of her eyes.

The action brings an unexpected flutter to her chest. “You know you scared the hell out of me,” she finds herself saying. Dark pupils look up and study her. Quinn presses her lips together in a sad smile. “I didn’t know where you were.”

Santana blinks at her, and then suddenly snorts. “Yeah well, like I said, I was coming here,” she says, almost too lofty.

She looks so young, it’s kind of mind blowing. “I’m glad you did,” Quinn admits.

The fingers stop shifting against Quinn’s messy sheets. “Yeah?” Santana asks, like this is some big surprise.

“Of course,” Quinn answers, because ‘duh’.

Santana considers that, almost shy in her reaction, which is a paradox in itself considering that maybe a half hour before she literally humped herself to orgasm by grinding against Quinn’s ass. “Cause I wasn’t sure you were going to let me in, at first.”

“Santana… “ Quinn exhales the name like it’s infinitely precious. “I’ll always let you in.”

It’s not a declaration of love, but it feels like it. Naked and intimate with Santana, closer than she’s ever been with anyone, Quinn has no capacity for her walls. Not when she’s drunk on love, drinking in the image of Santana on her bed, her disheveled brunette hair falling off her shoulders.

Maybe Santana feels it too, this magnetic pull must be infectious, because as Quinn’s hesitates a moment and begins the slow movement of pushing her fingers along the sheets to find Santana’s, the other woman meets her halfway.

Digits tangle. Quinn is transfixed with the way those fingers slide and slide against each other, smoothing skin against skin before hooking into a loose hold.

She feels suddenly like a kindergartner on a playground, giddy and sweet.

“You know it’s funny,” she hears. Quinn’s head lifts. Santana’s focus remains on their interlocked fingers.

“What is?” Quinn asks, breathless in the quiet moment.

Full lips pull into a thoughtless smirk. “When the Rent versions of Cheech and Chong kicked me out, I was in such a fucking rage, I couldn’t really think, you know?” She laughs, like this is absolutely hilarious instead of heartbreaking. Overcome, Quinn squeezes reassuringly at her fingers. “And then I was on the fucking train, and I realized something.” She exhales unsteadily.

Quinn can do nothing but wait.

“I didn’t even realize what the fuck I was doing until I realized,” Santana begins again, a soft laugh erupting at her own inadequacy, “That I was coming to see you.” Those dark eyes lift, captivate her with their sudden soberness and vulnerability. “I mean that was like… my first instinct,” she adds, like this is a revelation. “I didn’t think about anything but you…”

Quinn’s skin pebbles with goose bumps. Have they really come to this? Have they gotten this far? Is Santana truly admitting that in the midst of all this, Quinn has become her safe place?

She came to her once before – at Christmas, when she was desperate and alone and couldn’t go to Lima. Quinn was her last resort, because Santana had nowhere else.

But now…

That’s not the case. Not anymore. Santana has options. She could have run to Lima and her best friend and ex- girlfriend would be happily waiting with arms wide open, an easy smile and a sweet reassuring words of love.

Santana didn’t run to Brittany. She got on a train before she could even think about it and now she’s here, in a tiny Yale dorm room with an insecure blonde who won’t tell her she loves her and is afraid of everything.

Even Santana is unnerved, because when Quinn is too overcome to speak, Santana breaks the silence with a harsh chuckle. “I mean how fucked up is that?”

Her heart clenches instinctively. Chewing on her lower lip, Quinn finds herself veering for safety and looking away from Santana’s face, focusing instead on the fingers that connect between them. “Because it’s me,” she begins, voice hoarse with unshed emotion. “Or because it used to be Brittany?”

Maybe it means something that she can say her name and neither of them really react but to let it sink in.

Santana considers the question without judgment. “Both, I guess,” she admits after a pregnant pause. She stares, the weight of the world in her wondrous glance. “I mean did you ever think that it would turn out like this? That when push came to shove… it’d be you and me?”

Quinn wonders when she got past this. When she stopped wondering. When she stopped looking at their past and instead started dreaming of a future.

Her smile trembles as her emotion betrays her. “Santana,” she whispers, barely managing to give voice to her confession. “It doesn’t matter what we thought. It’s how it is now. And I don’t want it any other way.”

She won’t look at Santana. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are watery, and for a brief moment, Quinn feels like a fool.

Until those fingers that lock onto hers untangle ever so gently, and then there are fingers at her chin, lifting up, and dark brown eyes in a passionately passive face regard her.

Santana breathes her name like she’s precious, and then her mouth is slanting hotly against hers.

She’s not sure if the slow, unhurried exchange of kisses is cementing some sort of promise, but for once, Quinn finds she doesn’t have it in her to worry. Not when Santana’s tongue swipes so tenderly against hers, not when Santana takes the lead so readily, pushing Quinn back so delicately, shifting down on top of her.

Quinn is too overwhelmed to do anything but feel.

It dulls her senses, and it’s not until she hears the door actually open and a carefree voice hum along with the music still playing from her computer that she registers that they are no longer alone.

“Oh my GOD!”

Quinn breaks free from the kiss as they both twist to find Tabitha in the middle of the room, staring at them with wide eyes.

“Tabitha,” she breathes and then winces as Santana curses and fumbles off of her, grabbing at the only sheet that tangles between them.

“Oh my eyes!” Tabitha yowls and instinctively slaps her hands to her face to blind herself. Unfortunately, Tabitha has her big brick of a Droid phone in one hand and thus smacks the hard plastic against her fragile face. “OUCH! Oh my eye!” The phone drops and Tabitha winces, eyes blinking open to blearily register Quinn and Santana’s naked forms before she blinks them shut again. “MY EYES!” she snaps again, and then suddenly pauses. “Quinn, dammit we talked about texting if you were – wait. Is that Santana?!”

The sheet is flimsy and there’s been a bit of a tug of war between Quinn and Santana as to who gets to cover up their naughty bits. Currently Santana has won most of the sheet, but it’s very clear that it is indeed her, and they have been having a shitload of sex.

It’s an awkward reunion to say the least.

“Hi,” Santana manages, and Quinn flushes horribly.

“Tabitha-“

“Oh my God, it IS Santana!” Tabitha squeals, and it’s mortifying how pleasing this news obviously is to her roommate. “Are you guys back together!?”

“Tabitha-“

Tabitha could not squee any harder if she were at a One Direction concert (her guilty secret pleasure). She actually bounces on the balls of her feel like a little girl on Christmas and then waves her hands erratically at the two of them. “You know what? Say no more.” Blinking with her wounded eye, she fumbles for her dropped phone and shoulders her purse, backing towards the door. “I’m outta here. You two just… as you were.” She backs into the door and winces when it’s clear the handle has dug into her spine. “I’m fine,” she assures them, nodding like a bobble head. “You two have fun,” she adds, but can’t resist another peek at Santana and in the process, appears to lose complete common sense. “Holy crap are those boobs real?”

“TABITHA!” Quinn snaps, losing patience as Santana’s mouth drops open.

“Right, sorry!” Tabitha blathers, and reaches behind her for the handle. “Maybe we should do a sock on the door thing now that we’re both like sexually active college students-“

“Tabitha.”

“I’m leaving!” she yelps, and finally manages to yank the door open. “Nice to see you again, Santana.” She pauses, flailing awkwardly for a moment. “Yeah bye.”

The door slams shut.

Quinn releases the breath she has been holding, and drops the tiny scrap of the sheet she’s actually manage to snag from Santana.

“Holy shit.”

“I know,” she whispers, dropping her face into her hands as she finds herself doing the only thing she CAN do in this situation: laugh quietly.

Santana remains stupefied, silent beside her as she processes the quick turn of events. “She saw my breasts,” she states dumbly.

Quinn lifts her head, taking in the image of a very naked and disheveled Santana Lopez, sitting up on her bed with her smeared eye makeup and very dark hickeys.

“I think she saw a lot more than that,” she finds herself teasing, waggling her brow lewdly when Santana gives her an absolutely horrified look. “And I’m not sure I like that,” she decides, deciding to be possessive about this. “She seemed way too interested.”

A disgusted puff of air releases from between Santana’s lips, but Quinn’s statement seems to break the tension. Head shaking, Santana gives another disbelieving snort before she regards Quinn with her scampy smirk and sparkling eyes.

“She totally saw my sextape didn’t she?” Santana asks flatly.

“I didn’t show it to her!” Quinn immediately protests. “She found it on her own!” And gets a face full of pillow smacked against her face for her trouble. “Hey!”

A toned, lithe body launches hard against her own, pushing her flat back on the bed before laughing lips cover her own.

\--


	18. But My Body Keeps on Telling You ‘Yes’

“But Jesus fuck, I’d swallow poison if it tasted like you,” are the last words Santana whispers, wet fingers trailing across Quinn’s chin, smearing her with moisture, before her eyes drift closed and she succumbs to a deep sleep.

Quinn finds herself scarcely able to breathe as Santana settles in against her in a heavy, reassuring weight, sucking deep even breaths that are barely audible over the music that plays from Quinn’s computer speakers. 

It should be gross, maybe, to have her face wiped with fingers drenched with her own arousal. At least it was always gross whenever she ended up with… stuff on her from David or Puck or those guys she felt compelled to pretend to like during her pink-haired Skank days. 

It’s not gross. It’s really hot, actually. 

This is an absurdly gorgeous, intimate moment, because she knows that Santana is completely open and vulnerable to her. Everything has crumbled in around them, they’ve betrayed each other over and over again, and yet Santana trusts her despite everything to hold her, to keep her safe, while she sleeps away her exhaustion. 

It means so much, almost too much. Quinn hasn’t felt this… primal, this protective, since the night they spent together on New Year’s Eve. 

She’s addicted to this feeling. She wants more. It’s so cheesy but Quinn would hold Santana forever if she could. 

She can’t. She can’t even hold her for another five minutes because she also suddenly really has to pee. 

Santana’s tan, smooth thigh pressing down on Quinn’s full bladder is not helping. 

The fact that she actually takes the time to consider how much longer she can hold it is proof enough that she doesn’t want this moment to end. 

Which is stupid. Biological needs will always win out. 

Still, Quinn takes nearly a full minute to gently rearrange her lover, freeing herself and keeping Santana from waking up, and then takes another full minute to quietly freak out because she realizes that she just considered Santana her lover and there was no trace of irony at all, before she gets over herself, hobbles into some shorts and a tank top, and finally gets the door open. 

Thankfully, the hallway is quiet. Her own personal cheering section of horny college dormmates must have lost interest or got tired of waiting, because she makes it to the restroom relatively undisturbed, with exception to her TA, Jessie, who is in the bathroom brushing her teeth, and all she does is offer her a paste-filled smile and a high five as Quinn washes her hands. 

“Congrabs,” Jessie mumbles around her toothbrush. “Bleehs’ hots.” 

Quinn flushes furiously but smacks the offered hand before racing back down the hallway. 

\--

In the time it’s taken her to get back to her room, Santana has somehow managed to commandeer her entire bed, laying full on her stomach and sprawling her legs and arms out so her feet are literally hanging off the side of the mattress. 

She’s also snoring. 

It’s simultaneously adorable and annoying, because Quinn is suddenly reminded of countless sleep overs where Santana had done just that. Quinn usually handled it by either barking at Brittany to move her (since Santana was much nicer to Brittany waking her back then than Quinn), or smacking Santana herself to roll her over. 

Neither action seems appropriate now. 

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Quinn opts instead for sneaky, and slowly begins to peel her shorts back off, undressing herself. 

She’s pretty sure Santana will be much more agreeable to being disturbed if Quinn is naked when she’s doing it.

It’s odd to be so cavalier about this. Quinn is usually so self-conscious about her body. She’s littered with stretchmarks, scars that paint her skin with white puckers. Some have faded with time and faithful applications of Vitamin E infused lotion. Others will glare red for the rest of her life. 

She’s a tapestry of healed wounds, and she knows that it means something that she’s lived long enough to see them form and take shape. Quinn’s had a lot of shit happen to her, but she’s survived it. 

Every physical scar is paired with another emotional one that runs deeper, but time has given Quinn a fresh perspective. 

Still, for someone who has tried so hard to be seen as perfect for most of her life, it’s a hard pill to swallow. Particularly when faced with the perfectly smooth, flawless naked body of Santana Lopez. Santana’s figure has been created and toned to be worshiped. The breasts may be man made but the rest of her…

God… Quinn’s always envied that body. Santana has always had her demons but she’s never given birth. She’s never been nearly paralyzed. 

And yet… 

Santana was there for her pregnancy. She was there when that truck slammed into Quinn’s car. Quinn doesn’t need to undress and then explain the Ryan Seacrest tattoo. Santana already knows. She knows everything. Santana knows the story behind every scar and she doesn’t single them out. She doesn’t take her time to reverently kiss each one like David did in a misguided attempt to prove to her that she’s perfect with them, even though Quinn knows she’s not. When Santana’s hands smooth along her body, raising goosebumps and causing Quinn to arch beneath her, her scars aren’t invisible but they’re not special either. They are what they are, just another part of Quinn, another area for Santana to taste, and by now, Quinn’s sure that Santana’s lips have pressed upon every single inch of her body with the same reverence. 

She sees Quinn as beautiful and it’s not just for her perfectly constructed bone structure or the carefully made up façade. 

Quinn wonders if that’s why Santana seems as addicted to her. Maybe she thinks Quinn sees the same in her. 

Lord knows Santana is no stranger to masks. 

Body bare, Quinn approaches the bed and with a palm on Santana’s shoulder, gently shoves at the sleeping woman. Smiling at the grumbly growl that erupts, Quinn ignores how the slender arms slap halfheartedly at her thighs, and just presses her mouth gently against Santana’s cheek, reminding her of her presence. 

That’s all it takes. Even unconscious, Santana absorbs her, and shifts immediately, flopping back to give Quinn the room to scoot back under the covers. 

Once Quinn slips into the warm space she’s left behind, Santana presses in against her, settling back into her preferred position, plastered against Quinn’s naked body and falling back into her heavy sleep. 

Quinn isn’t even in the mood to doze. It’s fine. She’s perfectly okay with doing what she’s doing now, seeing Santana at her most vulnerable, carefully and reverently tracing away the bangs that fall into Santana’s face and tickle at her nose that smooshes against her breast. 

A soldier at the gates, protecting her beloved. 

A tinny ring disturbs the quiet moment. Quinn frowns. The dull sound of buzzing vibrates on her wooden desk. 

It’s Santana’s phone. 

If Quinn lets it ring, it will wake Santana. And under the circumstances that brought Santana here, it doesn’t seem wise to ignore it. 

Shit… she never even sent Rachel a text to let her know that she wasn’t meeting her at the train station. 

Oops. 

Twisting underneath Santana, Quinn somehow manages to flag the phone, scooting it towards her with her fingers and identifying the caller. 

… Well. It’s not Rachel. 

Quinn answers it. “Kurt?” 

A momentary pause follows. “… Quinn?!” 

Quinn stifles the urge to roll her eyes. It’d actually be a little pointless since Kurt isn’t here to actually see it. “Yeah it’s me.” 

“What are you doing answering Santana’s phone?” 

“What do you think?” she snaps, because honestly. Santana shifts against her, pressing into her boob awkwardly. Still sensitive from Santana’s very enthusiastic appreciation of them earlier, Quinn winces, lowering her voice as she drifts fingers through Santana’s mussed brunette hair reassuringly, pushing her back into a more comfortable position. “She came to New Haven, Genius.” 

“Oh, thank God.” To his credit, Kurt sounds genuinely relieved. Quinn waits, fingers working gently through a tiny tangle at the base of Santana’s neck. “… Can you put her on?” he asks, somewhat pointedly. 

One would think that Quinn’s recent multiple orgasms would put her in a better mood, but even with her sated body boneless against her lover (again, why does she keep thinking that? This isn’t a Harlequin romance), it’s very easy to suddenly remember why Kurt is trying to track down Santana in the first place. Because he kicked her out. Because he got mad at her for performing at his school. Because he’s a Mr. Fashion Bitch Face dramatic Queen. 

It’s easy, almost too easy, to feel the head cheerleader possess her, edging hardness in her tone. 

“No,” she answers as peevishly as she can. “She’s asleep right now, Kurt.” 

“Oh that’s why we’re whispering,” Kurt hushes back. 

Quinn valiantly hopes for a time when technology advances to the point where she can bitch slap a person through the phone. “Yes, that’s why we’re whispering,” she mocks. “Because she had a really hard day, and she’s just been kicked out of her roommate’s apartment for trying to protect her friend.” 

“…Right.” Kurt hems audibly, and Quinn, not in a quite so forgiving mood, allows him to. “… so you’re pissed,” he finally acknowledges. 

“Oh, you think?”

A loud rush of air blasts through the receiver. “Quinn, in all fairness,” he begins, in his squeaky Kurt voice, “you weren’t here, and half the reason she went all nuts is because you were acting all insane anyway!” 

Quinn does not dignify that with a response. In the ensuring quiet, Kurt seems to understand that he’s an absolute idiot, because he shuts up immediately. 

“Kurt.” Quinn’s voice is dangerously low. “Do you really want to continue this line of conversation right now?” 

“Not particularly,” he mutters, sounding miserable. 

“Then why don’t you tell me why you called.” 

“I heard from Finn… about Brody and what Santana did… “ 

Santana’s body begins to stir, shifting against Quinn as a low, grumpy moan reverbs out of her throat. 

“Uhuh,” Quinn sighs in regret, but immediately rearranges herself, wincing slightly when Santana plants her palm against her chest and uses her body as leverage to sit up groggily. Santana eyes her, and Quinn offers an apologetic smile. 

“Look, I feel like an asshole and I just want to apologize.” 

A shapely leg is tossed over her own and soon Santana is straddling her, resettling herself as she rubs blearily at her eyes and struggles to wake enough to comprehend the situation. “Who the fuck is it?” 

Instinctively, Quinn slides her free hand against Santana’s naked waist, keeping her comfortable and steady as she rubs reassuringly. “It’s Kurt.”

Santana’s brown eyes widen. Quinn arches a questioning brow. “Tell him to fuck off,” Santana decides, before she leans forward and plants a wet, sleepy kiss against Quinn’s jaw. 

“Santana says to fuck off, Kurt,” Quinn parrots immediately, chin lifting in appreciation for the turn of events. 

“Fine, I deserve that. Now please hand her the phone so I can apologize properly.” Kurt waits for approximately ten seconds, and then Quinn moans audibly. “Oh my GOD,” he screeches. “Do NOT have sex when I’m on the phone! STOP.” 

The screeching turns into actual panicked yelps, and that’s enough to kill the mood. Santana releases Quinn’s skin with a wet pop, groaning as she flops off of Quinn and takes hold of the phone. 

“Oh my God, Kurt, calm the fuck down,” she snaps, sighing at Quinn. “You act like you’ve never seen vagina in your life and considering you are the biggest pussy I know, that is definitely not the case.” 

\--

It’s clear from the open, honest way that Santana immediately begins to communicate with Kurt, that the relationship is ten times closer than it was at New Years. Though Santana is obviously pissed and let’s Kurt know it, her barbs are designed only to sting, not wound. When she glances at Quinn apologetically after a few minutes, lowering her voice, Quinn gets the subtle hint that this is a conversation between roommates, and not for her ears. 

And being as Santana is stark naked and Quinn’s dorm is filled the brim with horny boys, this isn’t exactly something she can take outside. 

Evening has descended and the chill has set, and since Santana has stolen the sheet AGAIN, Quinn pushes off the bed and rifles through her drawer for a pair of clean underwear and a flannel that she doesn’t bother to button. 

Santana’s brow rises at the object of clothing, but Quinn just shrugs.

_It’s a gift_ , she mouths, because it is. Tabitha bought it for her ironically, stating that she had to at least one stereotypical lesbian item of clothing in her wardrobe, otherwise it ‘wasn’t fair’. Whatever that meant. Quinn initially objected, because the only time she’s ever willingly worn flannel was for a number in Glee club, but it turns out that flannel is really comfortable and warm. And her dorm room gets cold. So she wears it. Not outside of the dorm but it’s quite cozy for studying and watching Netflix on her laptop. 

Settling down on the other bed, Quinn reaches for her neglected phone, and shoves her Skull Candy earbuds into her ears to give Kurt and Santana their privacy. 

At least that’s the idea… 

It turns out, however, that Santana may or may not have a thing for flannel. Or at least Quinn in an unbuttoned flannel shirt, with lapels hanging lewdly on the side, revealing her toned tummy and teasing the curves of her breasts. 

How did she ever not know Santana was gay? There may have been hours of ravishing, but Quinn isn’t sure she’ll ever not be affected by that dark, hungry stare that Santana sends her way. 

Her legs twitch, and Christ, Quinn JUST put on a pair of fresh underwear. 

Battling the flush on her cheeks at the open, appreciative gaze, Quinn shakes her head in open disapproval and makes a show of buttoning the first two buttons of the shirt. 

Santana’s pout is adorably amusing. Kurt must not think so, because suddenly Santana winces and has to physically turn her body to pay attention to the conversation. With Justin Timberlake blasting in her ears, Quinn can’t hear what Santana says in response, but it’s amusing at least. 

With Santana distracted, Quinn turns her focus on her phone and her missed text messages. 

There are more than a few. A couple from Rachel, who Quinn remembers with a surge of guilt, was meant to pick her up about two hours ago. She quickly replies, apologizing for not meeting her and explaining that Santana came to her instead. 

There’s no response. Rachel’s probably upset, and Quinn doesn’t blame her. Still, she feels too good to really feel all that terrible about it, especially when she lifts up a curious glance and sees the way Santana is still staring at her, phone at her ear and cat-eyes growing heavy as she lingers on Quinn’s lounging, barely clothed form on Tabitha’s bed. 

It’s insane how sexy Santana makes her feel. 

She likes it. 

She likes teasing Santana. 

Crossing her legs, Quinn lets her heart skip it’s dutiful beat and moves on to the other texts, biding her time. 

Tabitha, of course, wants an update: _Okay, it’s officially been like, five hours. I’ve been a good roommate and stayed away. Now spill._

And it appears, she has taken refuge in Nina’s single room, because there’s another text from the blonde German: _Is it safe for Tabitha to come back? She has eaten all my food._

Another message arrives from Tabitha: _Also I’m starving. We should eat._

Her shoulders shake in an attempt to control her mirth. _I’m not giving you the dirty details,_ she replies immediately to Tabitha. 

She begins to type to Nina, _It’s safe…_ , until she catches Santana shifting on the bed out of the corner of her eye. The sheet has fallen halphazardly to the side, and uncaring of her nudity, Santana stretches like a purring house cat, flexing muscles that stand out all too well thanks to the tan skin and toned body. 

God… Quinn is overtaken suddenly with the image of that body underneath her, and she wonders, really wonders, what it would be like to use a toy on her… 

Her teeth dig down hard on her chapped lower lip in a bid for self control, and Quinn amends her reply. _For now, but can you maybe take one for the team and get her some dinner? I’m not ready to give up my Santana bubble, just yet._

Her phone buzzes in the middle of her reply, and she quickly sends it off to see what Tabitha has to say: _Oh you don’t have to. Apparently half the dorm heard you appreciating Santana’s moves. To which I say, DAMN girl, and to which I also say, fuck that. You owe me dinner, and I wanna meet her._

Nina responds just as quickly. _Tabitha will not be tamed._

_You already met her,_ she reminds Tabitha. _More than once._

To Nina, she resorts to begging. _Please? I haven’t seen her since New Years, Nina._

_Like meet her meet her,_ Tabitha replies stubbornly. _When she has clothes on and with actual discussion._

Nina’s text is delayed, and Quinn discovers why when it finally comes. _I haven’t seen my boyfriend since Thanksgiving, so shut up. Also too late, Tabitha has broken free and she’s running back down the halls. I tried to stop her but she touched my face with her Cheeto hands and grossed me out. I’m hungry now too, btw. And out of Cheetos._

The bed dips unexpectedly. Quinn is only half startled when Santana, wrapped only in a sheet, flops down on the bed beside her, brushing up against her shoulder. 

Pulling the earbuds out of her ears, Quinn only manages to catch the last sentence of the conversation. “Yeah okay, Kurt. Okay… bye.” 

Santana tosses her phone to the side and with a pouty groan, lifts Quinn’s arm up so she can scoot underneath it, cuddling into her side like a petulant cub. 

Quinn has absolutely no problem with this, and makes sure Santana knows it by squeezing her in tighter, spreading her palm against the sheet at Santana’s ribs. 

“… So?” 

For a moment, Santana simply breathes her in, head buried in the crook of her neck and thumb idly brushing under the bauble of Quinn’s left breast. “He wants me to come back tonight,” she finally begins, voice muffled, and Quinn’s stomach drops. “Says I’ve been a good friend even if I ‘went about it all wrong’, and he and Rachel were wrong to kick me out.” 

Quinn wonders if her unwillingness to accept the sincerity of that apology has anything to do with the fact that she’s not ready for Santana to leave. “That’s it?” 

“It’s enough,” Santana answers simply, and it’s not Quinn’s place to argue. If it’s good enough for Santana, it’ll have to be good enough for her. “Besides, he kinda needs the reinforcements. Brody broke up with Rachel.” 

Quinn’s eyes widen at the news. Santana lifts her head from her shoulder and looks at her with frank, somber eyes. Technically, it’s a victory for Santana. She’s lobbied hard to prove that Brody is a creep and she’s been proven right. And yet, there is no thrill or validation in her expression. Just simple sadness for Rachel, because her boytoy was not who he said he was. 

The capacity of caring in Santana is near infinite, and suddenly, Quinn finds herself absolutely furious at anyone who would think that Santana has no heart. 

Without hesitation, Quinn’s fingers lift to caress the strong jawline intimately. The way Santana’s eyes flutter from the sensation, leans into her touch… it makes her breathless. 

“When,” Quinn whispers, but keeps her hand against Santana’s soft cheek. 

“Like an hour ago.” Santana slides her palm down Quinn’s open shirt to pop open the last two buttons, opening it back up again. “There,” she says, like it makes it better, and continues with her explanation. “Came back the loft with a busted face, and grabbed all his shit and walked out. Wouldn’t even give Rachel an explanation.” 

Quinn tries to focus, despite the fact that Santana has now laid a warm hand over her belly button, and just settled it there, like she’s planted some sort of flag of ownership. “And Finn didn’t… stop,” she says, slapping lightly at Santana’s wrist when Santana’s expression goes slightly naughty and her fingers tickle their way down to the band of Quinn’s underwear. “Finn didn’t say anything to Rachel?” 

“No,” Santana answers and tilts her face so her lips can brush against Quinn’s wrist, biting lightly at her skin in retaliation. “Rachel doesn’t even know that he was in town. Kurt thinks it’s best that Rachel not know about Brody until her Funny Girl audition.” 

Despite the shivers that Santana is so good at producing, Quinn can’t help but sigh. 

God… it just sucks. All of it just sucks. Rachel was finally coming into her own in New York. Her world view was expanding, beyond Lima, beyond Finn… and Brody… Brody ruined it. 

Quinn remembers the nice guy who told her to follow her heart. Who heard she loved Santana and told her that was okay. 

It’s difficult to reconcile that guy with the one that Santana describes. “Shouldn’t she get tested?” she tries, because at least that, Rachel can do. 

Santana scoffs, shaking her head in disgusted revulsion. “Trust me, I’ve tripped over way too much used latex in the bathroom trash bucket to not know they were being safe.” 

“Ew,” Quinn says immediately, and Santana nods. 

“I guess it was some sort of trippy ‘open’ relationship. She should be okay. At least for now.” 

Okay is not what Quinn would consider Rachel to be right now. Not when she was just dumped like this. “… how is she?”

Santana’s previously bemused smile fades, and she sighs, leaning away from Quinn’s touch to run her fingers through her mussed hair. “She’s a mess,” she says finally. “I mean… I know I was pissed at her, but I never… Rachel’s been a good friend to me, and even when I knew I was right I kinda did hope I was wrong, because even if he was a plastic lying donkey, he claimed to love her.” 

“Maybe he does,” Quinn says, unable to help but push for a good side to Brody. 

“Who cares now?” Santana says, head shaking at even the thought. “Quinn, he lied to her. He’s been lying to her. How is that a relationship? What is a relationship if you can’t fucking trust each other?” 

Suddenly overwhelmed, Quinn doesn’t have the words to reply. 

Thankfully, Santana does not seem to notice. She instead toys with Quinn’s fingers, sliding her own against them to tangle them together. “Anyway. Kurt can’t help her alone. She needs a girl. And… I need to go back and… you know… be like a friend or something. I mean it sucks. I’ve been there. And they’re like my family now.” 

Quinn doesn’t want to her go. It’s stupid, because of course Santana has to go, but Santana has only just arrived and… it hasn’t been like this between them. Not since New Years Eve. 

But isn’t that the point of Santana being in New York? To find herself? To find friends? To see a world beyond romance, beyond Quinn, beyond Brittany? 

“Yeah, okay,” she rasps. Santana must see the conflict, because that beautiful face seems to soften, and then she leans forward, capturing Quinn’s mouth in a lingering, passionate kiss that Quinn can’t help but savor. 

The door slams open. “Oh Christ, you two are doing it on my bed now?!” 

Quinn nearly bites Santana’s tongue off at Tabitha’s surprise entrance. 

Hand slapped over her face, Tabitha kicks the door closed and points at them both. “Get dressed. We’re going to _Sheets N Things_ and you’re getting me new sheets. And then dinner.” 

\--

No amount of arguing will convince Tabitha that she and Santana did not, in fact, ‘fornicate’ on her bed, and finally in a bid to shut her up, Santana hands over her credit card for a brand new twin set. Tabitha of course, tries to take advantage and heads straight for the 1000 count Egyptian cotton, but Quinn draws the line at anything over 400. 

“Learn to slum it,” she snaps, and Tabitha issues an affronted huff. 

“You suck,” she informs her, but Quinn has absolutely no sympathy. She’s just discovered that somehow Santana has given her the world’s biggest hickey on the side of her neck and no amount of powder and concealer will cover it up. 

Santana isn’t even sorry. She’s down right PROUD. 

“Just enjoy it, Q,” Santana grins cheekily, proud and ridiculous. “You’ve been branded with the Santana Lopez Hot Bitch Tramp Stamp.” 

“I hate you,” she mumbles because Quinn has become much more lax about propriety but hickeys are NEVER appealing. 

“Mmm, I very much doubt that,” Santana purrs like the cocky bitch she is, and Quinn hates that she wants so very badly to stick her tongue in Santana’s mouth to both shut her up and make her choke on it. 

“Seriously, can you NOT make out in the check out aisle?! Everyone is looking at us.” 

Actually they weren’t. But thanks to Tabitha’s outburst, suddenly they catch the attention of not just the check out clerk, but every other customer waiting in line. 

“Tabitha!” she hisses. 

Tabitha blinks, flushes, and when the clerk narrows her eyes, points desperately at Santana. “She did it! I’m just the quirky best friend!” 

Quinn’s look turns murderous. “Santana give me back your card.” 

Tabitha, suddenly aware of what she’s done, loses all color to her face (a feat, considering the darker shade of it) and flees, running for the parking lot with her sheets, before tripping on an orange cone just outside the doors. 

Her sheets break her fall, and she stops bitching after that. Quinn decides she’s suffered enough and lets her keep them. 

\--

“So… these are your friends, huh?” Santana voice is low in her ear as they watch Nina and Tabitha laughing over some geeky medical joke at dinner that both Quinn and Santana do not understand. The soft husk of her voice causes a delicious shiver that creeps up Quinn’s neck and flushes her cheeks. 

“Well, we’re not Coyote Ugly bartenders,” she manages to respond. “But we seem to get along.” Santana hums lips pressing gently to the area right behind Quinn’s ear. 

“The Coyote Ugly bartenders are bitches. Consider yourself better off.” 

They’re intimately close in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and not shy about it. Quinn isn’t sure why she doesn’t seem to care much about the fact that she’s being seen as a full-time lady lover. She suspects it has something to do with the fact that the lady she loves is Santana Lopez. She may be semi pissed about the hickey that Santana’s branded on her (because it’s TRASHY, not hot), but it’s thrilling as it’s always been, to notice that Santana can’t stop touching, WON’T stop touching her, because there’s only an hour and a half before the next train goes, and there hasn’t been enough intimacy. 

The booth they’ve chosen at this college-friendly burger joint is roomy, but Santana has made a point to keep Quinn close with an open palm laid boldly and possessively on her thigh, whispering words for her ears only, giving her a smile that is unmatched when she directs a statement to anyone else. To anyone who walks in, they’re together. Quinn has no problem with the perception, and in turn, has only sidled in closer. 

As Nina and Tabitha gab about the local gossip and tease about the scene the two girls make, Quinn keeps her eyes on Santana, watching with no small amount of pride the way the corner of Santana’s eyes crinkle in amusement at the two of her friends. “They are nice,” Santana admits quietly. “I’m glad you have them. I’m glad I have you,” she adds, sultry and soft. 

The words do their work. Quinn shudders, lids fluttering when she realizes that Santana’s blunt fingernails are scratching lightly at her thigh in a faint (and blush-inducing) mimic of what happened on New Year’s Eve under the table and in front of Rachel. 

“Not tonight,” she says, stilling Santana’s fingers with her own to keep them from going any lower. “This is a restaurant, not a club, and they will NEVER let me live it down.” 

Santana openly pouts, like Quinn not letting her finger her under the booth is some great hardship. “You’re going to miss me, Fabray,” she murmurs instead, and uses the cover of Quinn’s hair to lick lightly against the sensitive lobe of her left ear. 

Quinn can smell her perfume invading her senses. She understands what Tabitha meant, all those weeks ago, about Santana’s scent lingering. 

“You’re pretty missable,” she admits, trying to keep her voice even but failing miserably. Santana chuckles her delight, please that Quinn is absolutely horrible at masking her arousal in front of Santana. 

“Yeah?” she asks boldly. “Gonna miss the orgasms too, Quinn?” 

God… Santana has no idea. 

“Maybe,” she hedges. 

“Maybe you’ll have to make it out to New York soon then.”

A loud slap on the table makes her jump, and forces her attention to Tabitha, who slides quickly around the booth until she’s pressed into Quinn on the other side, grabbing her arm so harshly Quinn actually winces from the pressure.

“Okay, don’t look now but guess who’s here?” Tabitha whispers harshly, and so loudly Quinn doesn’t understand why she bothered to whisper at all. 

Quinn has no idea. “Who?” 

“Professor Ex.” 

… fuck. 

Quinn hasn’t seen David in little over a month, and though they’ve never had an official break up, it’s pretty widely known that she’s moved on. But even so, he’s not anyone Quinn wants to see, particularly with Santana’s hand between her thighs. “Crap.” 

“Just don’t look!” Tabitha tells her, yanking at her hand and keeping her facing her in a completely obvious way. “It’ll be fine.” 

It’s obviously not fine, because Santana is not stupid and has been watching the two of them the entire time. “What the hell is going on?” 

“Nothing!” Tabitha squeaks. “Just go about your business!” she adds, and then pats at Quinn’s thighs and, judging by the expression on her face, discovers what Santana’s business was. “Actually don’t. And I’m going to remove my hand,” she adds, yanking the limb back, “Because that was weird.” 

“Tabitha, what the hell-“ 

“David’s here,” Nina cuts in easily, leaning forward to sip on her straw as she thumbs at the area behind her. And there he is, Professor Ex, waiting at the hostess stand with another professor. He surveys the room and catches her gaze. 

Quinn immediately looks away. 

“Crap,” she says again and sinks down lower in her booth, which is silly, in retrospect. David isn’t a child. He’s not going to suddenly decide to walk over while he’s with another professor and she’s got a booth full of her peers. 

It doesn’t make her feel any better at the moment. 

Poor Santana isn’t fairing much better. “Who the hell is David?” Santana’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion, before she catches sight of Quinn’s face, and the way the other woman hunches down in her side. “Quinn, what the hell-“ 

“The professor,” Nina says, and seems to have no interest in him at all, preferring instead to pull out her phone and check her texts. 

Santana’s expression tightens. “Professor Slutbag?” 

Tabitha helpfully points right at him. “Tabitha!” Quinn hisses, and slaps her hand down. It’s too late. Santana gets a very good look at her admittedly very handsome ex-boyfriend, who stares at Quinn longer than he should before he is led to a table on the other side of the restaurant. 

“… that’s him?” 

“Why do you sound surprised?” Nina asks, curiously detached to an odd degree. 

“He’s not an old guy.” Santana’s dark eyes pin Quinn’s, almost accusingly, like Quinn’s lied to her about her ex’s appearance. “That guy is…”

“Super hot?” Tabitha asks helpfully. 

“No!” Santana sputters, and seems ridiculous offended at just the idea. “You never said the asshole was hot!” 

“I never said he was old either,” Quinn answers, trying to be as reasonable as possible considering these incredibly awkward circumstances and Santana’s sudden bout of insecurity. “But Santana… you know that’s long since been over.” 

“Yeah, relax, Santana. You’re totally hotter. Everyone thinks so.” 

“Who’s everyone?” 

“Quinn!” Quinn’s head swivels at the foreign voice, and awesome, it’s Shannon, the drama major who flirts shamelessly with her at every turn coming forward to greet her at her booth. 

Why the hell did she think it was a good idea to come here tonight? “Shannon!” she says, voice too high to be completely genuine as she pastes on a smile that she knows is way too wide to be taken as genuine. “Hi!” 

“Hey, beautiful.” Shannon as she makes a show of looking her and Santana over. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight!” Santana is turned away from her, but judging by the stalled grin on Shannon’s face, she suspects Santana’s grin isn’t nearly welcoming. “And you must be Santana.” 

“I have no idea who you are,” Santana snaps. 

“Yeah!” she stumbles forward quickly, keeping her posture close to Santana as she grips her arm (to keep it from flinging anywhere inappropriate, like Shannon’s face). “This is definitely her. Santana,” she adds quickly, “This is Shannon, she and I have drama together.” 

All Santana offers is a slight, terse nod. “Right,” she breathes, and it takes Quinn pinching her to at the very least, offer a civil nod. “Hi.” 

The fact that both Nina and Tabitha are watching the proceedings open-mouthed like they’re at the US Open just makes Quinn want to smack THEM instead. 

“Hi,” Shannon says, and teeters back on her heels, grinning widely. “You know, it actually helps,” she adds, when no one makes a move to say anything else. “Meeting you.” 

“Does it?” Santana asks, voice an almost dangerous purr that has Quinn tightening her grip on her in warning. “How so?” 

Shannon shrugs with that silly, charming grin that could be sweet if it wasn’t so obviously pissing Santana off. “Pictures don’t do you justice, girl. I mean if she’s going to turn me down, at least it’s for someone way hotter than me, right?” 

It’s nice, all things considered. A compliment. 

Santana, with her rigid posture and Quinn’s ex-boyfriend sitting across the restaurant, clearly does not have the mental capacity to see it that way. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” 

Shannon’s smile falters. After an uncomfortable beat, she thumbs behind her. “Right, well… I’ll go back to my table. Nice to see you, Quinn.” 

“You too, Shannon,” she sighs in apology, and waves lightly to the departing girl. “That was really rude,” she says the moment she’s out of earshot. 

Santana’s fingers come off her thigh. “Wow, Quinn,” she replies with fake enthusiasm. “I had no idea you were so popular!” Her expression is a mask of glittering annoyance and ruffled feathers. “Yale has quite the Quinn Fabray fan club!” 

… so she’s going to be a petty spoiled brat about this. Awesome. 

She has not missed THIS Santana. 

“Bathroom!” Tabitha squeaks, and shoves at Nina pointedly. “We’re going to the bathroom!” 

“I told you not to eat the chili,” Nina sighs, but let’s herself get dragged away from the booth. 

Quinn exhales slowly, and does her best to keep her temper under the circumstances. “She asked me out and I said no, end of story.” 

Santana doesn’t respond. Instead, she focuses her attention on her straw, fiddling with it in the clear mason jar her water came in, spearing the lemon slice that’s soaked inside and crumbling the flesh to pieces. “Why’d you say no?” 

“Why would I say yes?” she asks, and knows Santana is going to say something really really stupid right now. 

Santana shrugs uncaringly, dropping the straw and giving Quinn a cruel smirk. “I mean, you said it yourself, we’re not together. And you’ve obviously got your pick of lesbians and professors here, so… ” 

Yep. Stupid. 

It would be so easy to fight about this. Santana wants the fight. She’s feeling jealous and insecure and she’s never had to face the competition in this direct way. Quinn’s seen is only slightly with Brody but this… this is worse. She’s never wanted Quinn this way, and Quinn knows how Santana dealt with competition for Brittany. 

Badly, very badly. 

At least Quinn’s used to dealing with her jealousy. She’s been jealous of Brittany in one way or another her whole life. Since even before the first moment their lips touched in a drunken kiss. How is this fair? 

It’s not. It’s not fair. 

But Santana’s mouth is tight and her eyes are shiny, and she’s so beautiful tragic and stupid about this, and she’s going to be leaving in an hour, and this isn’t how Quinn wants this gorgeous day to end. 

Deliberately, Quinn reaches for her iced tea and forces herself to take one long sip. “Let’s not do this now, Santana.” Palm pressed to the side of her face, Quinn eyes Santana matter-of-factly. 

“What?” Santana barks, silly in her surprise at Quinn’s maturity. 

“You’re jealous and you have no reason to be,” Quinn answers calmly. 

Clearly, Santana does not expect to be confronted so directly. The way she stares at Quinn so gobsmacked is kind of amusing. She makes noise, like she’s going to refute it. Quinn has no patience for that. 

“You are.” A small smile floats quietly on her face. “And it’d be cute if it wasn’t a little annoying right now.” 

Santana’s eyes narrow. “Right, cause it’s not like two week ago you weren’t making out with some random chick on Facebook.” 

The cold chill that settles down Quinn’s spine is not fun in the slightest. “Santana.” 

“I’m just saying,” Santana snaps, on firmer ground now that she’s actually made Quinn wince. “You really do have it made, here. I completely get why you wouldn’t tie yourself down. You’ve got the pick from faculty AND staff!” 

“Santana…” Quinn’s eyes roll up toward the ceiling. 

“Quinn!” Santana snaps back, mimicking her tone to be completely annoying. 

Santana deserves to be slapped. 

Instead, Quinn shifts in the booth and wraps a firm hand around Santana’s nape, dragging her lover into a harsh, punishing kiss, shutting up any further diatribe from the girl. 

The words become a whimper. Quinn’s lips pull into a victorious smile, and the embrace grows gentle, nipping at soft lips and head tilting to deepen the kiss. 

She hears a whistle or two. She knows they’re giving the entire restaurant a show. 

She doesn’t care. 

It’s kind of the point. 

When her head goes fuzzy and her breath escapes her, Quinn finally pulls back, just enough to study the dazed, soft expression on Santana’s face. 

“You’re the only one I want,” is the confident whisper. 

“… kay.” She’s an idiot. 

Eagerly, Santana leans forward, closing the distance to kiss her again, arms sliding around her possessively, and that appears to be the end of that. 

\--

Santana’s train is on time. 

Quinn hates that. 

It means less time with Santana, and she’s fully aware of how clingy and lesbian they must look, holding hands as they stare at the steel compartment that will take Santana away from Yale, away from HER, but somehow Quinn can’t bring herself to care. 

It’s ridiculous, how in love she is with Santana. How much it physically hurts her to come to terms with the fact that in a few minutes, Santana will be leaving her AGAIN, and there’s no control over it. All she has is soft kisses and memories and the sweetness of Santana’s scent. 

There’s no promise of the future. No declaration of commitment. Despite what’s happened, Quinn doesn’t feel ready for that. Not yet. 

It’s still too delicate, too frightening, to dive in with both feet. 

And yet, when Santana lets go of her hands to slide possessive arms around her waist, presses in close to Quinn like she loves her, Quinn has to force herself to remember why she’s more than her fear.

This is all she wants. 

Frustrated at her own inability to move forward, Quinn’s head falls instead, gentle against Santana’s, lashes pricking against her skin. 

Santana’s grip tightens against her, and Quinn feels whole. 

“So… did you get Mr. Schue’s wedding invitation?” she asks, unsure why that’s even the question she asks at this point. 

Santana chuckles darkly. Quinn feels the way Santana thumbs at her back even though the layer of her coat. “Yeah, of course. On Valentine’s Day of all times. It’s ridiculous.” 

“It is,” Quinn agrees, as the conductor calls out the boarding instructions. Her heart beats so fast. “But… I was wondering.” 

“What?” Quinn swallows, suddenly sweating as she closes her eyes and tries to just breathe through her anxiety. This is so much easier with boys. When she doesn’t care. Santana’s touch brings back her focus. “Quinn,” she whispers, softer than Quinn’s heard in a long time, bringing her fingers up to slip them in her grasp, squeezing lightly. “Spit it out, Q.” 

She does. “Maybe we could go together.” 

Santana absorbs that. “Like as friends?” she asks, testing her. 

Quinn’s tongue feels thick. She’s terrified, but Santana’s touch is soft and reassuring, and that smile that dances on the corner of her mouth just makes her want to kiss away her own insecurity, bleed it try on the pleasure of Santana’s tongue. “… not particularly,” she hedges. 

Brown eyes dance and sparkle at her, addicting in their purity. “Like a date?” Santana asks, and Quinn blushes, laughing raggedly. 

“Maybe.” 

That smile is now wide and open. Santana tickles her ribs, and Quinn yelps, shaking her head as she ducks back. “You asking me on a date, Q?” 

“Stop enjoying this so much,” she mumbles, breathless and dizzy from her embarrassment and happiness. 

The kiss that Santana gives her, open, wet and willing, is what grounds her. Soft lips that she’s kissed so many times before drag that emotion out of her and still her nervous flutters. A soft tongue reassures her with a tangle against her own. 

“Yeah.. we can do that,” Santana whispers against her mouth. “I’ll be your date.” 

“… Kay,” Quinn mumbles, fully aware that it’s her turn to sound like an idiot, before Santana’s intoxicating lips press against her once again. 

The conductor gives the final boarding call, and still, it’s Santana that has to break their embrace. Their interlocked fingers hang between them as she steps back towards the train. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

“Absolutely,” she promises. The fingers break their hold and her hand falls back to her side. Santana looks at her two more times before she finally boards the train. 

Heart full, body alive in a way Quinn is not sure she’s felt before, she hears the whine and hiss of the train engine as she stays rooted on the platform. She doesn’t chase the train the way Finn Hudson did the day Rachel Berry left him to go to New York, but for the first time, as Quinn watches Santana get taken away from her, she understands the inclination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line is a quote taken from tumblr and added to this fic as a request. :)


	19. Try to Tell You "Stop"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been a while. I apologize for that. I try to write whenever I can, however my writing time has become extremely limited this summer. That said, I’ll do my very best to get a new chapter done and in the next couple weeks. I know this update took a little longer than most. I do appreciate all the feedback and the notes. So thank you!

Standing on the steps of the church where Mr. Schue will finally marry Miss Pillsbury, Quinn decides that she will consider just getting through the next few minutes of waiting for Santana Lopez to arrive without a full blown panic attack a raging success. 

She’s nervous. It’s like her body forgot how to be nervous and is remembering all over again. It’s creating havoc on her body. She’s actually sweating, which is both fiercely unattractive and completely illogical in light of the fact that it’s actually kind of frigid. Agreeing to meet Santana outside of the church, and then being so nervous she actually showed up early despite the fact that Santana is almost clinically late to everything was a terrible judgment call.

Snow is still melting on the sidewalk, making the pavement wet and a little slippery. Quinn makes sure to watch her footing as wedding guests arrive and stream past her towards the church, including some familiar faces like Glee Club members, faculty and her former fellow schoolmates. A few stop and say hi, recognizing her and eager to ask about her life in Yale. It’s too cold to do anything more than idle chit chat, and she’s grateful for that, because she can barely answer the repetitive questions they’re asking with any sort of intelligence. 

Brittany’s arrival brings with it a painful clench of Quinn’s heart. Her old friend, dressed in an oddly demure dress and wearing a subdued expression that’s out of place on the normally bright and cheerful face opts to ignore her entirely. Instead, her gait quickens and she reaches out to grab hold of Sam’s elbow, using him for support as they ascend the steps. Sam briefly flushes and just gives her a tight, uncomfortable smile. 

Seeing them together, Brittany openly leaning on him the way she is, is slightly confusing considering the last thing she heard was that they had broken up, but Quinn has long since discovered that she can’t put anything past Brittany, so she elects to forget it. 

If she can get through this day without some sort of confrontation with Brittany over Santana… that would be good. 

Santana told her, in an incredibly awkward phone call, that she had told Brittany who she was coming with and that Brittany accepted it, but Quinn knows Brittany too well to think that that’s the end of it. 

Brittany has a habit of getting what she wants. 

Condensation leaves her lips in the form of a fog, and Quinn wonders if she’s gone about this entirely wrong. Seriously, what on earth possessed her to think that using Mr. Schue’s wedding as an opportunity for a first date was any sort of good idea? 

This is not a good idea. 

This is a terrible idea. TERRIBLE. Maybe in theory it could be considered somewhat romantic, but a wedding on Valentine’s Day is already a recipe for disaster… 

God, dating a woman is a terrifying enough concept on its own (how do guys DO this?), but to add to it the cursed tragedy that is Lima, with their mutual awkward histories and the parade of familiar faces? Why has she even considered this? 

Is she really going to use this venue as some sort of coming out party and declaration of love to all of them? Sing some cheesy love song at Mr. Schue’s wedding and ask Santana to be with her, belong to her, in front of their entire Glee Club? 

This isn’t a fucking choir room. 

WHY did she do this? They could have had a first date in New York. She could have picked Santana up at the loft and laughed softly as Kurt cooed and Rachel sighed and Santana, embarrassed and adorable, barked at them both to shut up. They could have had ice cream at the shop on the corner, bitched at each other because Santana can never decide and Quinn always gets the same thing every time, and then made out on a park bench and froze their asses off. Maybe some rude people would yell at them to get a room but no one would know them. No one would CARE. 

But no, that didn’t happen. She chose Lima. Like an idiot. 

Quinn shifts on her heels, teeth digging into her lower lip as she resettles her balance and forces herself to suck in another icy lungful of air. She feels unsteady, awkward, terrified as she turns and looks toward the entrance of the church. 

The tiny box in her right hand is clenched tightly. Quinn isn’t exactly clumsy but she’s terrified she’s going to drop it, and in her vice grip, the bow that her mother (trying so hard to be supportive and oddly pleased with Quinn’s choice of date, possibly because this way she can’t possibly accidentally fall pregnant again) so carefully constructed for her has been squished and wrinkled. 

Is it appropriate? To give a gift on a first date? Tabitha suggested a corsage but this isn’t frigging PROM, and the jewelry she found… it’s simple. A sterling silver necklace with a tiny little silver bulldog charm hanging from it. It’s silly. It’s the Yale mascot. 

It’s for Santana to wear, because if this goes well… if they … commit… 

The distance. Quinn wants Santana to know she’s thought about the distance. What it would mean. And that she wants to try. And Santana, if she wanted to, she could wear this, like every day, and be reminded that they’re in this together. 

Plus… Santana is a little bit like a bulldog, in her tenacity and it privately amuses Quinn, though she definitely knows better than to openly compare the two. 

It’s a sketchy plan, but it’s a plan, and it’s all Quinn has right now. She’s terrified, but she wants to push forward. She wants to promise Santana everything. 

Maybe get a little of that in return, if Santana is willing. 

And if they can do that here, they can do that anywhere. 

But… later. It’s for later. Quinn shoves the gift into the pocket of her dress. 

“Look at that,” she hears, a roughly amused voice that speaks up directly behind her. “It’s my hot date.” 

She whirls so quickly she nearly twists her ankle on the simple heels she’s chosen for the occasion. She forgets the twinge of pain immediately when she catches sight of the woman stepping up onto the curb, a vision in red. 

Santana wears a dangerous smirk and a tight red dress, accented only by a faux black fur wrap as glossy as her dark curls and a long gold plated necklace that dips down between her breasts, calling attention to the gorgeous cleavage that is so prominently displayed. 

God… 

Santana is just… sexy. 

So, so sexy. And she’s here. She’s standing here, with a beautifully made up face and carefully sculpted locks of hair that fall down her shoulders, dressed to kill in a dress that clings so effortlessly. 

“… Quinn?” 

She coughs, cheeks staining red as she shakes her head in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she tries, voice somewhat strained as she takes in Santana and her rounded breasts and that ASS that won’t quit. An ass she remembers biting, sinking teeth into as Santana arched appreciatively beneath her. 

How the hell did Quinn become THIS gay this quickly? 

“I just… this is real, right?” she finds herself asking, determined not to be a complete idiot and pinch herself. “It’s happening.”

Because it’s almost unthinkable. That it’s Valentine’s Day, and she’s in Lima, Ohio, and this gorgeous woman, the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, is standing only one foot away from her, calling Quinn her date. 

Santana’s smirk, sexy and confident, softens, and as she steps in closer, Quinn takes in the whiff of her perfume, familiar and tantalizing. “It’s real,” she admits, and Quinn licks her lips in an effort to contain her beating heart. “But I can’t tell if you think that’s a good thing or not.” 

Quinn blinks, colored eyes refocusing on her best friend, standing so close to her, so willing to be claimed. “It’s a good thing,” she rushes to say. “It’s a really good thing. You’re so beautiful, Santana.” 

Maybe her shyness and disbelief is contagious, because for some reason, that affects Santana. This woman, a Coyote Ugly dancer who is told she is beautiful by strangers every day, who gets so many numbers shoved into her jeans pockets Rachel has started to openly complain to Quinn about the way they they’re wadded and tossed around the apartment, suddenly looks shy. “Um… “ 

“You guys are both adorable and kind of gross,” Rachel supplies, abruptly breaking the moment when she steps up next to Santana and rolls her eyes at their display. “Hello, Quinn,” she adds, leaning forward to peck Quinn warmly on the cheek. “You look ravishing,” she adds, taking hold of her hand to appraise Quinn and her outfit. “Not that there’s ever a time when you don’t.” 

That, apparently, is enough to bring Santana back to herself. “You know, Dwarf, when I said you could come with us, I didn’t mean so you could hit on my date,” she snaps, grabbing hold of Rachel’s wrist and tugging her away from Quinn. 

Quinn feels a rush of heat at the open admission from Santana, said loudly and within hearing of every guest that walks past them, up the stairs and into the church. 

Rachel, apparently in a prickly mood and not nearly as intimidated by Santana as she used to be, just shrugs her off. “I’m complimenting a friend, Santana.” 

“Friends keep their eyes off their friend’s cleavage, Rachel,” Santana snaps peevishly. 

Quinn wonders if it’s appropriate to be this amused. “Hi, Rachel,” she says pointedly, friendly and kind. “You look great.” She does. She’s taken Santana’s lead and chosen a tight dress that accents her figure (though hers is pink), and based on the curls that frame her face, Quinn guesses that these unlikely roommates may have had a hand in helping each other get ready. 

It’s almost surreal, to see such obvious evidence of this friendship. 

“Thank you for being nice, Quinn,” Rachel says, glaring at Santana, as if she should take note. Santana only purses her lips and flips her hair haughtily. “I’m going to find us seats, and in the meantime, I hope you two can figure out not to be complete idiots around each other on your date. It’s adorable, but slightly saccharine.”

As she passes, she squeezes Quinn on the shoulder, and then leaves them to each other and their slightly awkward, excited silence. 

“Thanks for being cool about me bringing Miss Annoying Third Wheel to the church,” Santana says suddenly, breaking the silence as she half smiles at Quinn. “She’s feeling very vulnerable because of Brody and since Kurt has decided he’s going to fall back into bad habits and hook up with his ex-gay elf, she’s told me it’s my job to keep her from doing Stupid.” 

“Doing something stupid?” 

“No, doing STUPID.” Santana pointedly nods in the departed Rachel’s direction where Finn Hudson now stands, dapper in his black tuxedo as he smiles goofily at Rachel and offers her the crook of his elbow. 

“Oh.” To Rachel’s credit, she just seems to suck in a deep breath and accepts Puck’s arm instead, nodding at them both as they turn to walk into the church. 

Quinn lets her gaze linger on her handsome, idiot ex of her own, and waits for that telltale thump that always used to happen when she looked at Noah in a particular way. It doesn’t come. It seems that all her awareness is reserved for the woman that stands beside her. 

“I guess it is tempting to fall into old habits.” Santana’s tone in odd. 

Quinn just smiles. “Not for everyone,” she says pointedly, and despite the rapid hammering of her heart, decides it’s time to be brave. “Can I hold your hand?” 

Santana is momentarily stunned, but the expression fades in favor of something softer… sweeter. 

After a quiet, pregnant moment, Santana lifts out her palm, waiting quietly until Quinn releases a ragged breath and reaches up to meet it. Fingers tangle as skin presses against skin, a gentle, firm hold. 

This is happening. 

As Quinn turns in the direction of the church, leading her date to this wedding, she can’t stop the flush of giddy happiness that paints color on her cheek and a smile onto her face. 

“I missed you, Quinn,” Santana whispers in her ear as they ascend the steps, and Quinn finds herself so overcome she can only squeeze back. 

\--

Her good mood lasts as long as it takes to get into the church, and then they make their entrance. Quinn tries not to care, but it’s difficult to stop the way her posture stiffens when she realizes that there are many curious eyes floating in their direction. 

She and Santana make a striking pair, she’s always known that. It’s the reason they parted hallways so easily at McKinley, hell it’s the reason they became friends in the first place, because they’re both stunning and two stunning girls are better than one.

But she and Santana never held hands at McKinley so intimately, and not once did Santana ever linger at the edge of the aisle and before leaning into Quinn and whispering intimately that she had to go to the bathroom. The kiss she presses slowly on the corner of Quinn’s jaw isn’t exactly porn, but when Santana kisses like that, it’s also not innocent. 

And Quinn suspects that neither is the look she can’t help but give her date as Santana walks away, hips swinging and toned legs on display. 

She knows there are heated gazes and whispers between old friends and Glee Club members erupting as she ducks her head and heads down the center aisle. She expected it. Last they knew, Quinn was straight, and Santana… 

Santana only had eyes for Brittany. 

But she’s here with Quinn now, and if they make striking friends, Quinn knows that they’ll make an even more gorgeous couple. 

Screw it. She’s proud. Her head lifts and she nods to Rachel, making her way to the pew where her friend is waving maniacally. 

She wants this. She’s scared, but with the fear also comes the pride that Santana is on her arm at this wedding, not… 

Not Brittany’s. 

Quinn settles beside Rachel in the pew, making sure to put her purse down to leave space for Santana. The church is rapidly filling up, and whatever entrance she and Santana made has already been forgotten as other guests fill in the spaces. A few rows from the front of the Church, Brittany sits, head turned back and regarding. There’s a polite, cold smile from Brittany that Quinn acknowledges hurts a little. She tilts her head back in greeting, and Sam, sitting quietly with Brittany, waves his hand in return, lifting his hand over Britany’s shoulders and curling her into him as he gently prods Brittany to face the front again. 

Rachel, who misses the quiet moment due to her furious whispers with Kurt, glances questioningly in her direction. 

“What?” 

Quinn can only regard the blonde pair before them, noting with a quiet, thoughtful gaze the way Sam takes opportunity of Brittany’s vulnerability to trace his broad palm possessively over Brittany’s shoulder, keeping her close as she whispers in his ear. 

“I thought Brittany and Sam broke up,” she says finally. 

Rachel glances in the direction of her look. “Oh,” she says, sounding both exasperated and resigned. “Last I heard, they did.” Rachel shrugs, lips pursing at the couple. “Not that I know much about the gossip, but Santana told me that they’re still friends. I don’t think Sam’s given up hope quite yet.” 

Sam’s still speaking to Brittany, but Brittany’s attention isn’t on Sam anymore. She’s now straightened away from him, and her piercing blue eyes focus instead on a figure behind Quinn. Even if Quinn didn’t look and see who it was, she would know immediately the identity of her simply by the softened, besotted look in Brittany’s eyes. 

It’s Santana of course, cutting a striking figure as she shoulders her way through the guests that crowd the center aisle. She hasn’t quite found Quinn and Rachel yet, and instead, Quinn sees the way her eyes lock on Brittany. 

Unseen by either party (or simply ignored), Quinn is a silent observer to the haunting exchange, taking in the beautiful, soft expression on Santana’s face as she manages a trembling smile and lifts her hand in an awkward, gentle wave that acknowledges her ex-girlfriend. 

Her heart clenches. Her stomach sinks. Quinn forces herself to look away. “Seems like he’s not the only one who hasn’t given up hope,” she mutters, and hates how intimidated she feels. 

Hands gently touch her wrist, pulling her attention back to quietly thoughtful and reassuring brown eyes. “Santana’s here with _you_ , Quinn.” Rachel’s brow lifts, making her point. “In Lima. On Valentine’s Day.” Rachel doesn’t need to emphasize the meaning behind those words. Quinn’s eyes flutter as her head grows dizzy for a moment, because what Rachel is stating are facts. “She’s excited to be here with you. That means something, doesn’t it?” 

Yes. It means something. Quinn has a box in her pocket that she hopes will prove how much it means. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, and with a shaky exhale, returns the affectionate squeeze, flashing a thankful smile to Rachel. “You’re right. It does.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Rachel!” Rachel’s hand lifts away immediately. Her eyes roll dramatically as Santana plops down on the bench, scooting in close to Quinn, boobs pressing against her bicep as she gives their mutual friend a scathing glare. “I know you’re on the rebound and shit but can you NOT hit on my date every other second? She’s here with ME.” 

“I’m straight, Santana.” Rachel’s clearly run out of patience for Santana’s possessive behavior.

Quinn wishes she could be as annoyed. 

“Yeah so was Quinn,” Santana snaps, and the annoyance immediately comes. 

“Do you want me to slap you again?” she asks, brow rising at Santana. Old habits die hard, after all. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a compact, making sure to inspect her face and her formerly glistening eyes. 

“Depends on how kinky we’re getting,” she hears breathed against her jaw, and almost drops the compact. 

Santana and her damn sexy innuendo. “I’m ignoring that,” she snaps, but winces when her voice slips unsteadily. 

A slow, scampy smirk forms on Santana’s pouty lips as she studies Quinn’s flushed cheeks and parted lips. It’s inconvenient how quickly Santana’s learning to read her arousal. 

She hates that she’s so addicted to how Santana smells, the way she inhales quietly when Santana slides in just that much closer, until her thigh is pressed in tight against Quinn’s and fingers linger against Quinn’s as they hover over her lap. “And what if I asked you for a quickie in the bathroom?” Quinn hears, a soft, seductive whisper in her ear that ghosts hot breath over sensitive skin. “Would you ignore that?” 

_Fuck._

Quinn’s eyelids flutter, an effort to control the insane arousal that pulses at her groin when Santana’s determined fingers smooth along her arm and slip past them to smooth down to the edge of her dress. 

A hard smack of a purse on their joined hands causes Quinn’s body to jolt back to reality. 

“Rachel!” Santana snaps. 

“Do NOT finger each other in front of me,” Rachel says, eyes facing forward, a plastic, dangerous smile on her face as Mr. Schue and Finn take their place at the front of the church. “Once was enough to last me a lifetime.” 

Santana openly huffs, so annoyed it’s amusing. 

Quinn could wonder how insanely odd it looks to someone who thinks they know them when she presses a gentle kiss to Santana’s cheek, a successful attempt at taming the beast before she can murder Rachel. 

God, if it came out of nowhere it would look absolutely ridiculous. 

To Quinn, it’s just ridiculously perfect. 

\--

The wedding, however, is anything but. 

Emma Pillsbury doesn’t even show up. Mr. Schue is jilted at the altar, and instead of a pretty redhead in a white dress, it’s Sue Sylvester who saunters awkwardly down the aisle, waving peevish hellos to befuddled guests, showing off her dress, poking fun at the Glee kids, and turning the entire wedding procession into a huge fiasco. 

No one knows what to do now, because Mr. Schue refused to believe it at first and just stood up there, and wow that was awkward because Finn just stood next to him.

That was horribly uncomfortable, and it was almost a relief when people began to get up and file quietly out of the church. Santana’s fingers clenched in hers and Rachel was actively bawling, sniffling in a tissue as they made their way into the open parking lot. 

And now, no one knows what to do. There was a ton of squabbling about who was going to go in and actually confront Mr. Schue and ask him what to do about the party they’re all supposed to be attending now, and somehow, like always, it became the responsibility of the Glee Club. There was talk of drawing lots until Santana lost patience, called them all a bunch of pansies and marched in there herself, leaving Quinn behind to wait for her in a parking lot full of strangers and friends that are looking at her with so many questions in their eyes. 

And God, it’s horrible. It really is. Quinn feels terrible for Mr. Schue because he looks… he just looks so broken. 

Emma Pillsbury was supposed to be his forever love. The one that he was meant to be with. 

And she left him behind, broke his heart so easily. 

Is love really that fickle? 

Quinn’s tears are unexpected, and she hurriedly wipes them away when she sees Mercedes Jones heading her way. 

“Girl, up until Mr. Schue got stood up you were the talk of this wedding.” Mercedes looks absolutely gorgeous, and she sounded hauntingly beautiful when she sang the opening hymn of the wedding march. 

“HI Mercedes,” Quinn says, and open her arms for an affectionate hug. “You totally killed it today.” 

“Of course I did,” Mercedes says, rolling her eyes as she dismisses the praise. She squeezes back lightly and grips Quinn’s forearms as she leans back. “And don’t change the subject. You need to tell me exactly what is up with you and Santana walking in together, acting like you’re the new Ellen and Portia.” 

Well… Mercedes never was one to beat around the bush. 

Quinn knew this conversation would happen. So she braces herself, shoulders squaring and posture perfect as she decides to just let it be what it is. “We’re on a date.” 

Mercedes’ eyes narrow, clearly unsatisfied with the simple explanation. “You need to give me more than that.” 

Quinn finds herself laughing, a light tightness in her chest that feels like a mixture of embarrassment and giddy affection. Does talking about this make it more real? It feels like it. “I don’t,” she insists firmly, and ignores the way Mercedes clucks her tongue in displeasure. “That’s all I have,” she admits, shrugging helplessly. “I like her,” she adds, because this is Mercedes, and though they’ve grown apart, she was one of her first genuine friends in Glee Club and deserves as much honesty as Quinn can give her. “I’m pretty sure she likes me. So…” her head bobs, because it’s an equation that should be simple… at least in theory. “So we’re … dating now. Seeing where it goes.” 

“Mhmm.” Dark eyes study her blushing, soft expression. “Damn girl, you’re serious. You’re dating Santana Lopez.” 

“Astonishingly sincere,” she agrees. “And yes, I’m aware it sounds absolutely insane.” 

“Wow.” Mercedes takes that in, and offers a smile of her own. “Okay then!” Her hand lifts in a gesture of surrender. “Not much I can say about that but go Santana! Whoda thunk all those slaps were foreplay!” 

“Mercedes!” 

Her friend laughs, but the expression sobers when they both ear a woot and a laugh that directs them across the parking lot, where Santana’s ex-girlfriend and Quinn’s semi-former friend waits with a cluster of Glee kids. 

“So how’d Brittany take that?” Mercedes asks, voice lowering. The third member of the fractured Unholy Trinity has her arms crossed and her ankle twisted. She sticks close to Sam and Kitty, but Quinn doesn’t miss the way Brittany sends a furtive glance in their direction. Mercedes’s mouth twitches when Sam kicks at the asphalt and throws his arm around Brittany’s shoulder. “Well, I guess it’s none of her business if she’s still up on _your_ ex, right?” 

Quinn’s lips quirk at the intentional comedy of it. “Isn’t he most recently yours? Maybe I should ask how you took that.” 

She’s gentle with her question. At some point she thought she could fall in love with Sam, but Mercedes… She cared about him on a completely different level. 

Mercedes surprises her though. “I dumped him,” she clarifies. Though her look is soft, whatever true emotions she holds in regard to Sam moving on from her so quickly is hidden behind the dark sunglasses she suddenly slips on. “And this is why.” She watches the way Brittany and Sam speak together quietly. “Sam Evans sure does get around, doesn’t he?” she asks. “At least he never proposed to ME. I guess you have to be blonde for that to happen.” 

Quinn’s mouth flattens but any response she may make to that is cut short when Rachel joins them, face tight with worry. “I was afraid of this. This is a disaster!” She shivers in the cold. “Mr. Schue is going to be devastated when he finds out the truth.” 

Mercedes and Quinn share a pregnant, unsure glance. “Do you know something, Rachel?” Quinn asks, because Rachel is being awfully twitchy. 

Dark eyes shift between them both. Rachel seems openly conflicted, but softly sighs and stomps her feet in surrender. “Finn kissed Miss Pillsbury,” she says, words coming out in a fast hiss. Mercedes openly gasps, but it’s Quinn that Rachel reaches for, grabbing hold of her to emphasize her point. “It was just a peck and it doesn’t mean anything,” she adds, like she was there and actually knows this for sure. “But it’s kind of been festering and unspoken, and Finn’s really freaked out and Miss Pillsbury won’t talk about it and Mr. Schue doesn’t know.” 

“Finn KISSED Miss Pillsbury?!” Mercedes yelps, because she has no volume control. 

“Shhh. It’s a secret!” Rachel says, waving her arms in ridiculous supplication, face going red when they draw curious glances from a few surrounding guests. 

“And yet you thought it was wise to tell this big juicy secret to Mercedes Jones, the biggest gossip on the planet?” Quinn asks dryly.

Mercedes pinches her in retaliation. “I resent that,” she snaps, ignoring the way Quinn yelps. “Who am I gonna tell? I don’t even live here. Tina is the one you need to watch out for.” 

Quinn’s head tilts, conceding. She’s only heard rumors, but she has to admit that if they’re true then Tina has gotten a little… intense. 

“I didn’t even know you were gay!” 

“I’m not gay,” Quinn snaps, oddly peevish about that. “If anything I’m bisexual.” 

“Oh my God, who cares!” Mercedes says, shoving at her to stare down at Rachel. “You are old news, Fabgay. Rachel, spill. Was it like an affair?”

“No, of course not.” Rachel looks so affronted, one would think SHE had kissed Emma Pillsbury. “Finn swears it doesn’t mean anything, and it was just a stupid mistake.” 

Quinn wants to be offended at being considered old news, but she has to admit, this entire weird love triangle between Mr. Schue, Mr. Schue Jr., and Emma Pillsbury has much more scandalous appeal. “This isn’t a mistake, Rachel,” she admits, tone lowering for Rachel’s sake. “Finn’s is Mr. Schue’s best man. He kissed his best friend’s fiancé when he was out of town. That’s … that’s pretty terrible.” 

Mercedes offers a wordless noise of agreement. Rachel glances between them both. Quinn can tell she wants to argue, but when her shoulders slump, she knows she won’t. “Yeah,” she admits. “I mean Miss Pillsbury was obviously so shaken by it she left Mr. Schue at the altar,” she adds, hissing the last word like it’s some sort of swear term. “If Mr. Schue finds out about this, then their friendship is over. I mean who forgives a friend for moving in on their girl? That’s kind of despicable.”

God, Quinn did not need Brittany glaring at her at that exact moment. 

“Yeah,” she finds herself muttering, a terrible knot in her stomach. “What a dick.” 

“Oh, God, Quinn!” Rachel grabs hold of her elbow, clearly noticing Quinn’s nauseated wince. “That’s not… I didn’t mean… it’s totally different between you and Brittany.” 

“Is it?” she asks, because it doesn’t sound all that different. “It’s not. I’m the dick that got in the way of true love. Oh God,” she inhales in horror. “I’m Finn Hudson!” 

“You’re not!” Rachel insists. “Brittany and Santana were already broken up when you and Santana… you know… had the sex!” 

“Don’t ever call it ‘the sex’ again, Rachel,” she snaps because whole thing is already gross enough. 

“And you’re not Finn,” Mercedes adds, impressively keeping up with the conversation. “Or Mr. Schue, who is an adult teacher with no adult friends. Seriously, what kind of adult makes a 19 year old manchild like Finn his best man and then expect him NOT to screw up? I’m just saying!” she insists, when Rachel glares at her. “It’s kinda creepy.” 

“It’s not creepy, it’s sweet,” Rachel says. “Mr. Schue is like the father Finn never had.” 

Mercedes just rolls her eyes. “I thought BURT was the father Finn never had,” she points out, and adds, “But I’m going to ignore you because you lose all brain cells when it comes to your ex.” Rachel blinks at her, stunned into silence, before Mercedes turns back to Quinn. “And you. Listen, I know you three like to call yourselves the Unholy Trinity or whatever, but it’s not like that loyalty kept Brittany or Santana from getting with every single ex you ever had.” Quinn feels an ache of nausea in the back of her throat, but keeps her mouth closed. “You and Santana are just two single hot girls who put aside your slapping and got your lesbian on.” 

There’s so much swimming in Quinn’s head, she decides it’s easier to just focus on the inconsequential detail. “I’m not a lesbian. I’m not!” 

Mercedes just gives her a look. 

“I just like Santana! And yes,” she snaps, finger lifting to cut off whatever comment Mercedes may make in response. “I know that sounds insane coming from my mouth, but it’s true. I really like her. I want to be with her.” 

Rachel just pushes an obnoxious breath out between her lips. “That’s pretty damn obvious, Quinn.” 

“Is it?” she asks, oddly mortified. 

“It is,” they both tell her without pause. 

“Oh geez.” Quinn feels the color burn into her cheeks. How obvious is she? 

“Doesn’t mean it’s not cool though,” Mercedes continues, drawing Quinn’s attention with a quick touch of her wrist. Kind eyes sparkle at her. “Look, Quinn, at some point we all have to move on from high school. Whatever you and Santana got going on, it’s yours. Glee Club is our past, but this is your future. If you like her, well then you get yours, Quinn.”

It’s sincere and utterly sweet, and exactly what Quinn needs to hear. 

Seriously, thank God for Glee Club. 

“Thanks, Mercedes,” she manages softly, and accepts the warm hug that Mercedes gives her. 

“For the record,” Rachel adds, still peevish. “I think my pep talk was better.” 

Any attempt she would make to assuage Rachel’s wounded ego dissolves the moment Quinn catches sight of the church doors opening and Santana stepping out of the church with Finn Hudson. 

\--

Despite Santana’s (admittedly mediocre) efforts, Rachel insists on going with Finn to the party. She’s determined to make him feel better, and Quinn admits that she’s not exactly complaining. This is she and Santana’s first date and though the circumstances are entirely weird and slightly inappropriate… she can’t help but feel they deserve this time alone. 

Santana is comfortable in her passenger seat, fingers rolling up the volume when SoulKid #1’s ‘More Bounce In California’ comes on the Sirius stereo. 

Quinn’s usually sober on the road. Her accident is never far from her mind, and she likes to stay as alert as she can when she does drive, but Santana is a distraction. 

She’s uninhibited… happy in a way that Quinn has forgotten she can be. The Santana of the last few months has been mired in tragedy, with the loss of her girlfriend, her scholarship, her path. But this Santana… she’s different. Lighter. 

“We got more bounce in California than all ya combined!” 

This is the Santana Quinn remembers when they were young and stupid, best friends before the complications of sexual identity and hormones got in the way. Her head bobs to the catchy tune, and though Quinn makes sure to keep her focus on the road, she finds herself fighting a smile at the way Santana goes Full Dork, rapping along with the song and bouncing along to the verse. She’s smiling, gorgeous and brilliant and unrepentant when she catches Quinn smirking at her display. 

“Come on, Q, get into it,” she demands, and does this weird shimmy that could be a minor twerk. “We got more bounce in California where the hustlers all reside!” 

“This is Lima, not California!” she points out, just to be a jerk, but the laughter is infectious, and she lets Santana pump up the volume to an obnoxious level. 

“Don’t kill my dream, Dream Killer.” Her car actually shakes with the bass, and when Santana does something that looks like a seated running man, she can’t help but bark out a peal of laughter. “We got more bounce in California rolling easy when we ride!” 

They hit a stop light, and Santana will not stop being a dork. She grabs hold of Quinn’s hand and raises it in the air, doing some sort of wave. 

“You’re an idiot!” 

“I’m a hot ass bitch, Q!” Santana says immediately, and motions to her shimmying body. “You know you want up on all this.” 

Quinn can’t help herself. It’s Valentine’s Day, and she’s in a car with her gorgeous date that she’s so, so in love with, and it’s damned infuriating and adorable Santana Lopez. 

Instincts win over any trepidation, and she tugs forcefully, covering Santana’s laughing mouth with her lips in a sweet, enthusiastic kiss. 

Santana responds immediately, almost as if she was waiting for it. Quinn feels fingers on her cheek, smoothing over her skin to curl over her nape and keep Quinn’s lips on hers.

She breaks away only slightly, millimeters away from lips shining with her own moisture. “Hi,” she whispers. 

“Hi,” Santana whispers back, and then pulls her back in to open her mouth against Quinn’s. She can taste Santana’s smile on her lips and her tongue, and for a brief moment, it’s the start and end of her world. 

The blaring honk of a car startles them out of their embrace.

“Holy crap!” 

Quinn fumbles for the wheel she realizes that the light’s turned green. 

“Fucking assholes!” she hears, and laughs as Santana flips off the car behind them, but she starts forward, Santana’s scent on her skin and her heart full of the giddiness of love. 

Mercedes is right. This is their time. High school is over. It’s time they all move forward.


	20. Part Twenty: Try to Tell You "Stop" Part II (A)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this isn’t a full chapter. Think of this as a ‘mini-chapter’, posted because I know it’s been months and I don’t want you to think I don’t feel absolutely horrible about it. I honestly truly love this fic and I want it to be done well, and unfortunately work has been allowing me no breaks for writing as late. And since I know these next couple weeks will be more of the same, I thought I’d offer as penance the first scene of the next chapter which is nothing but pure Quinntana fluffiness. I hope you enjoy. The next (full) chapter will pick up where this left off, and I will do everything in my power to actually finish it within this month, if not earlier.

She settles into an open space in the lot behind the hotel and switches off the ignition, killing the song Santana is bopping to mid-lyric. The parking lot of the hotel is semi crowded, and around them, Quinn can see other people getting out of their own cars, adjusting their ties and skirts, doing last minute primping before they make it to what will probably be the most depressing Valentine’s Day wedding ‘celebration’ ever. 

They should join them, but Quinn stalls. Her hands float from the steering wheel to her lap as she watches the guests filter around them, weaving around the car, all headed in the same direction, hobbling and shivering in the icy air. In the car, the heater keeps it nice and toasty, and instead of being stuck in a room full of strangers, the only person here with her is Santana. 

It’s that comforting bubble that she loves so much, and she doesn’t want to pop it. Maybe the terror has ebbed a bit, but she knows it’s still very present. With people comes complication, and in that ballroom are so many people who could ruin this tentative, sweet relationship they’ve so defiantly forged.

It’s so much easier to believe that this is real when it’s only she and Santana. 

“You know,” Santana announces suddenly, breaking Quinn’s contemplative silence. “We’ve never made out in a car.” 

She accompanies that with a saucy glimmer and a devastating smirk that Quinn is very quickly learning will be her undoing in many _many_ ways.

It makes her smile. 

“There’s a lot of things we’ve never done, Santana,” she answers and means it in a very different way than it’s perceived. Quinn should know better. She’s become more than familiar with Santana’s very _wanky_ mind and it’s evident from the way those brown eyes darken that she’s already coming up with some sort of mental checklist of the X-rated variety. 

“Challenge accepted.” Santana lunges before Quinn is ready, and suddenly she has an armful of slender woman draped over her and the console, slipping a wet tongue between her already swollen lips. It rips an almost agonized moan out of her, because even though they’ve done this often enough now, she’s still not used to the fact that she’s kissing Santana Lopez so enthusiastically. 

Her body, however, seems more than convinced when she huffs in anxious lust as Santana drags her teeth along her lower lip, following it up a harsh and eager suck. Santana chuckles at the reaction, head tilting as she presses fingers against Quinn’s jaw and kisses more forcefully. 

“Santana!” she slurs even though her lower lip is currently taken hostage. This is a public parking lot, and it’s actually kind of crowded, and people actually know them here. And yes, while this is sort of an official coming out party (though as WHAT Quinn still has yet to determine, the idea of trying to even label her newfound Santana-focused sexuality is headache inducing), she would appreciate if it happens in a less porny way…. 

She was hoping for more of an implication than an actual physical demonstration. 

But her willpower is rapidly diminishing with every thoroughly wanton kiss Santana plants on her wet lips, and even when Santana stops long enough to start paying very close attention to a very sensitive spot on her neck, Quinn just loses herself completely and arches her body in compliance. 

“You know what else we’ve never done?” she hears in a dark, dangerous tone, lost in the pleasure of lips vibrating against her sensitized skin. “We’ve never made it in the back of a car.” 

The mental image that immediately springs to mind is damning, and suddenly logic is this far away, fleeting thing that has absolutely no place in this car. 

It’s both a salvation and a rude awakening when someone raps loudly at the window, shocking them both out of the lust-induced clinch. Santana actually yelps, biting down way too hard on a particularly fleshy part of Quinn’s shoulder, which in turns makes Quinn’s fingers clench against Santana’s nape. 

“Fuck!” she hears, before she lifts watery eyes to the window to see Rachel glaring at them through the foggy window. 

_STOP. IT._ Rachel clearly mouths, giving them the look of a stern school teacher that would be intimidating if it were anyone but Rachel. 

“Oh God dammit,” Santana breathes. “Does she got like a tracker on us?” 

Quinn just arches an eyebrow, chest heaving slightly as she struggles to recover from her temporary loss of judgment. She fingers the welt on her shoulder. “Did you really bite me?” 

“You tore a chunk out of my weave,” Santana points out. “I think we’re even.” Rachel taps at the window again, and Santana responds with a crude middle finger jabbed forcefully in Rachel’s direction. 

Rachel only rolls her eyes before she drags a gaping Finn away from the car. 

“I swear to God, I’m putting a bell on her when we get back to New York,” Santana complains, rearranging herself on Quinn’s lap to try and hobble back over the console.

She sounds entirely too put out considering it was probably the best move for them and their reputation. “Tell me you didn’t think we were _actually_ going to have sex in this parking lot,” Quinn snips. 

“Dare to dream, Q. S’not like you were actually stopping me” is the flippant reply, which is … okay… Santana has a point. 

Still, though. 

Quinn huffs, unable to help being stubborn when Santana’s mouth frowns into a pucker as she lifts something out of Quinn’s pocket. It’s that box with the wrinkled bow. “What’s this?” 

_Oh._

Suddenly breathless, Quinn is struck dumb as Santana studies the little box that’s meant to be a promise. “That’s for later,” she manages. 

It’s a stupid response, and not nearly enough for someone as curiously relentless as Santana. She just arches a speculative brow, and shakes the box. “Is it for me?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Quinn says, laughing breathlessly at the semi-stupidity of the question. “Who else would it be for?” 

Santana’s eyes flicker from Quinn’s tight, nervous expression, back to the box in her hand. “Seriously?” she asks, and suddenly a smile spreads on her face that is near blinding in its eager brilliance. “You got me bling, Q?” 

“I got you bling,” is the dry response. “But it’s not what you think-“ 

Santana presses a hard kiss to her lips. “Can I open it?” 

God, Santana is so giddy. It’s fascinating to witness, because Quinn doesn’t ever remember Santana being this way, not with her. 

It affects her judgment and sways her will. This is supposed to happen at the end of the night, after Quinn’s paid her dues, after they’ve made it through the evening without incident and Quinn’s had a few hours with Santana by her side and maybe a few glasses of champagne to give her courage and hope. 

But Santana’s eyes are so bright and her expression is so hopeful, like a child on Christmas, and the tightness in Quinn’s chest actually borders on painful. 

“I guess you can,” she says finally, and can’t help the slight laughter when Santana squeals like a dork and tugs haphazardly at the bow that Quinn’s mother so carefully tied around the box. 

She can do this now. She can. She can roll with the punches. She can improvise. She took a full semester of improv! She can do this. 

And they say drama doesn’t teach life skills. 

“Santana,” she says, because there’s a method to this madness. It takes all her courage to suck in her breath, and gently pry the box from Santana’s fingers before the other woman can open it. “Wait. There’s um…” she feels dumb. Her tongue is thick and her heart beats so, so very fast. “So um… I had this whole little speech planned,” she begins, cheeks burning with her emotion. “And I can’t… I can’t remember it now.” 

“Q…” 

“No…” she says, shaking her head when Santana reaches for her. “Just let me…” With a harsh inhalation, intensely aware of the suddenly quiet woman beside her, Quinn tries again. “There’s a lot that’s wrong with me. I know that I’m not perfect. No one will ever say that I was meant to be your soulmate or… even think that I’m someone that’s easy to be with. But… you make me want to try to be… even before… this happened…” she sighs, stumbling over her words and trying again. “Even before this happened, I always knew that me and you together could take on the world. And I know that we’re… you know… like oil and water sometimes… and…” she glances up and it’s a mistake, because dark brown eyes shine at her with such emotion she forgets her words, forgets herself entirely. Santana strikes her breathless. 

_Fuck it_. She opens the box, and displays with trembling hands the tiny silver bulldog hanging from the chain. “It’s stupid I know,” she prefaces, because Sam got her a ring, and Finn got her his old blankie and Puck got her… a few thousand dollars made off of weed brownies. In comparison to those memories this seems frightfully inadequate. 

Santana’s focus flits from the tiny charm back to Quinn’s nervous, hopeful expression. She’s gone deadly silent and it’s terrifying. “I guess, what I’m trying to say is that… together, we could be flawless.” 

Hands close over the box, snapping it shut and suddenly lips press heatedly against hers, soft and wet and so, so beautifully familiar. Quinn’s stomach drops as her eyes flutter and she shuts up gladly as she kisses Santana back. 

After a long moment, Santana whispers softly, “Help me put it on.” 

“It’ll clash,” is the first thing Quinn says, which is SO STUPID, but Santana just pulls back and rolls her eyes, pulling her gaudy gold neckless off her shoulders and draping it around Quinn’s neck instead. “Hold that for me, you bitch.” 

The box is opened once again and then then there is fumbling and laughter, and Santana hissing slightly when one of Quinn’s rings catches a curl around her neck, but when it’s over, that obnoxious little bulldog settles comfortably just under Santana’s collarbone, and Santana’s mouth is right back on her own. 

“You’re turning me into a cheesy ass bitch, you know that, right Q?” she hears mumbled against her lips. 

It is ridiculous, if she really thinks about it. “Yeah, we’re both pretty pathetic right now,” she admits, because they’re in this together. “That’s okay, though, right?” she asks, that stupid insecurity rearing back. 

Fingers tilt against her cheek, as Santana rolls her eyes with a shaky, sincere smile. “Yeah, that’s… that’s amazing,” she says, almost a snap in her breathless huff before she sobers. “You’re amazing, Quinn.” Santana’s smile falters, her tone quiets to a whisper, as if she’s spilling some dark, deep secret. “I always knew it, but I never… I just…” Those manicured fingers once again finger the little charm on her neck. “Look this year has been really crappy but I want you to know, that I’d go through it all over again if it meant discovering you like I did.” 

The words touch her in a place she never knew exist. “Will you be my girlfriend, Santana?” 

The silence at the end of her question withers it all away. “Ask me again at the end of the night.” 

Her heart clenches painfully. “Oh.” 

Santana’s hand grabs hold of her wrist, and once again, those lips are on hers. “Ask me again at the end of the night,” Santana says again, but close and intimate this time, unwilling to let Quinn go. “Because when I say yes, I’m going to want to cement that with some lesbian fornication…” The implication of that sets in, and suddenly Quinn understands that Santana means… she’s going to say yes. The woman she loves desperately… she’s going to be her girlfriend. She’s going to belong to Quinn. No question. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about the backseat sex?” 

It’s a tempting offer, God it’s so tempting, but Quinn wants that hotel room she booked. She wants hours of lovemaking as she rides the high of being on this woman’s arm, telling everyone who knows them that Santana is with her. 

Flawless. Together. 

It’s she who takes the initiative this time, lunging forward to open her mouth against Santana, who will be her girlfriend, who has just promised to be HERS. “Get out of the car, Santana,” she orders, and Santana laughs against her lips. 

\--


	21. Try to Tell You "Stop" Part II (B)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! My resolution is to write a helluva lot faster. :)

As she walks into the reception, her hand tangled in Santana’s, Enrique Iglesias is blaring from the DJ’s speakers. Once again, the pair gets a fair amount of attention, but it feels different from the way they were openly gawked at before. Some of the shock has worn off, sure, but now the onlookers aren’t pinned in by church pews and propriety. They’re free to openly gape as she and Santana weave through the crowd, intimately close and obviously very much together. 

It’s not as scary as she imagined it would be, but Quinn knows that if she hadn’t just had the moment she did with Santana in her car, she’d be far more intimidated. This isn’t the future she envisioned for herself not more than one year ago when she was campaigning with Finn Hudson for homecoming queen among this very crowd. 

Scanning the ballroom, Quinn watches a few of the party-goers who have started dancing. There aren’t that many. Most of the guests have wasted no time taking advantage of the open bar. Casual awkwardness envelopes the entire reception, but that’s not much of a surprise. What are they really celebrating, the irony of a bride running out on her groom on Valentine’s Day? This entire celebration is heartbreak announced with blood red heart decorations and a five tier wedding cake. 

“This is possibly the most depressing wedding reception I’ve ever been to,” Santana announces, lip curled up in clear distaste as she also observes the weirdness. “But at least the booze is free.” 

Rachel’s waving enthusiastically from across the room and Quinn allows Santana to lead, heading to their assigned table. Santana gives wide berth to the table right beside it, featuring both Brittany and Sam. Brittany ignores them both. 

She privately makes a note to thank the runaway bride (if they ever find her) for having the foresight not to put them at THAT table. Mr. Schuester’s overinvestment in their love lives was mostly creepy, but it did have its moments of worth. 

Though now, in retrospect, she wonders how it took this long for HIS love life to get this entangled in theirs. How many student/teacher affairs had actually happened at McKinley? 

“Well it’s nice to see that you two have finally managed to defuse your lips long enough to join us,” Rachel grouses like a disgruntled school marm as they take the two open seats that are left. “I swear they’re like cats in heat!” she whispers to Mercedes way too loudly. “When we get back to New York, I’m going to start keeping a spray bottle in the loft, just in case!” 

“You even try spraying me with water, Berry, and that bottle will go right up your ass,” Santana arches a brow as Rachel uncaringly lifts a frosted glass filled with tinted liquid to her mouth and sucks it up in a straw. “And don’t tell me you’re not into that because curtains aren’t exactly as sound proof as walls.” 

“I never!” Rachel replies, scandalized for about a second. Drunk Rachel appears to be a very forgiving Rachel, however, and she follows that up with a charmed giggle and a loud kiss planted on Santana’s cheek. 

“Ew, Rachel, no!” 

“I love you,” Rachel announces, arms around Quinn’s struggling date. “Has anyone ever told you you’re like a very cuddly cat? That’s what I meant, you know. When I said that about the spray bottle.” 

“Yeah, Dwarf, I got it!” 

“You even have the claws!” Rachel adds, and peers at Santana’s fingers and her meticulous manicure. “I mean wow, these are long! … Quinn, doesn’t that hurt?” 

“Oh for fucks sake, Rachel!” 

Quinn sighs and watches the scene of Rachel climbing all over Santana and Santana pretending to be disgusted by it. “We literally just got here, how is she this drunk this quickly?!” 

“Finn may have brought us all shots,” Mercedes admits, and then holds up her very own martini. “And then she had a couple more drinks,” she giggles. “We all have. How else are we going to have to deal with this awkward ass-party?”

“Alcohol is nature’s awkward moment defuser,” Santana agrees, much calmer now that she’s managed to shove Rachel back into her seat. “Stay!” she orders, palm flat as she points it at Rachel. Rachel pouts, but grudgingly obeys when Santana hands her back her drink. 

Mercedes blinks in her direction and flashes a beautifully white smile. “Hello, Santana! How is my favorite she-devil?” 

“Pretty fantastic, actually,” Santana answers immediately, and if that’s not enough to cause Quinn’s cheeks to tint, the way she so casually settles a palm against Quinn’s thigh certainly helps. 

“Mmmhmm,” Mercedes mumbles knowingly, and grins deliciously at them both. “I bet you are.” 

“Quinn, have I told you how pretty you are?” Rachel announces suddenly, head cocking at Quinn as if she’s studying a painting. “Santana, isn’t she pretty?” 

In that moment, Quinn decides the only way to handle Rachel is to catch up with her drunken state. “I think I need a drink.” 

“Oh God, please let me,” Santana says immediately, scrambling out of her seat the minute Rachel starts leaning in her direction again. “What do you want, Q?” 

“Just some champagne,” she says, and feels like an idiot when her heart flutters as Santana squeezes lightly at her shoulder and nods. “Stop hitting on my date, Berry!” she adds, pointing menacingly at Rachel as she crosses the floor. 

“She’s getting you a drink,” Mercedes announces the moment Santana is out of hearing distance, like that wasn’t obvious. “Look who’s got Santana whipped already.” 

“Shut up, Mercedes.” 

“It’s cute,” her friend clarifies. “Hella weird, but very cute.” 

“And I can’t help but notice that Santana’s wearing a different necklace than the one she was wearing to church,” Rachel adds, adjusting herself in her chair as she throws a super cheesy grin at Quinn that is embarrassing even by association. “And I’ve also observed that you’re wearing the necklace she was wearing to the aborted church ceremony.” 

“Yeah, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” is her dry comment. 

“Ooh,” Mercedes, queen of gossip, is sufficiently intrigued. Her boobs push enthusiastically into Quinn’s bicep as she leans in to fondle at Santana’s necklace currently hanging between Quinn’s cleavage. Only Mercedes can possibly make the gesture look even remotely platonic. “Spill, you.” 

It’s the world’s least effective interrogation and Quinn is mildly revolted that she wants to be a complete giddy idiot about all of it. 

“There’s nothing to spill,” she insists, but her eyes follow Santana and her figuring hugging red dress as she leans on the bar and presents her fake ID, ordering their drinks. “Not yet, anyway.” 

“Don’t give me that, Quinn Fabray.” Mercedes pinches her, ignoring her pained and annoyed gasp. “It’s not like I haven’t known you long enough to know when you’re hiding something.” 

“To be fair,” Rachel adds, tilting the champagne into her throat. “Quinn usually hides everything.” 

Quinn passes along the pinch, making Rachel yelp. 

“Good point,” Mercedes muses. “But that doesn’t mean she’s getting out of this. Come on, Quinn. We’re invested.” 

“Why ARE you so invested?” she asks, because it’s kind of weird. 

“Gives me something else to do other than glare at my flakey ex,” Mercedes quips dryly. Quinn’s expression sobers, as her eyes flit from Santana to Sam, sitting only one table away, clearly bored and tossing Jordan Almonds into the air, attempting to catch them with his mouth. “And it keeps Rachel from getting into Finn’s pants again.” 

“That may happen anyway,” Rachel sighs. “What?” she adds defensively when they both stare at her. “I’m weak, I’m on the rebound, he looks really _really_ cute, and Santana is doing a miserable job of keeping me away from him.” 

A flash of annoyance that courses through Quinn. “Santana isn’t your damn keeper, Rachel.” 

“Right, she’s doing her own thing,” Rachel nods patronizingly, surprisingly agreeable. “Like making out with you in cars and wearing a little necklace she didn’t have before. So where’d she get the necklace from, Quinn?” Her lashes flutter, and Mercedes giggles. 

Santana’s still at the bar, but her fingers are at her collar bone, absently playing with the tiny little charm that Quinn put there. 

_God._

“… Okay,” she finally relents. “I may have given her a necklace as a gift.” 

“You gave Santana bling?” Mercedes sounds disturbingly proud. “And on the first date? Lookit you, charmer!” 

“Shut up,” she snaps, because both she and Rachel are now squealing like penguins and drawing a lot of unneeded attention. ”It’s not that big a deal, okay?” 

“Well, she’s looking at it like it’s a big freaking deal,” Rachel comments, and Quinn hates how she flushes with pride. 

“It’s a promise,” she admits, and then sighs, because she didn’t meant to reveal that much. Not yet. Not without Santana’s actual answer. “Dammit. I just…” Two sets of brown eyes stare at her expectantly, and she finally deflates. “I just… if things go well tonight I wanted to … you know… be with her. Officially. So the plan was to give her a gift and then maybe… you know… ask her to be my girlfriend.” 

Rachel’s brow rises. She’s practically vibrating in her seat. “So did you ask?” 

Quinn wets her lips, and sucks in her breath. “Yes, I asked.” 

“And what did she say?” 

“Quinn!” Blaine appears out of nowhere as her sudden savior, dapper in his black tux and mussed hair. “It’s time to kick things off!” 

Startled, Quinn can only stare dumbly. 

“We’re all singing?” Blaine prods. “Remember? I mean, this may not be a wedding reception anymore, but you know what they say, the show must go on! And that means you!” 

_Oh._

Right. 

There are probably many reasons why Quinn has forgotten that once again, all the former Glee Clubbers have agreed to provide tonight’s entertainment (free of charge). Through either nostalgia or the fact that Mr. Schue was too damn cheap to hire an actual band, they had all been tasked with finding a wedding-appropriate song to perform for the reception. Blaine put himself in charge of the music and had emailed her more than a month ago, badgering her for sheet music and a ‘demo track’ to make sure the band had the right tempo and key so they would be ready to ‘hit it’. 

Taking his cues directly from the Rachel Berry School of Control Freaks, he had even assigned the designated performers all distinct duets or solos, based on his perceived assessments of their strengths and weakness. 

How had she landed a solo again? Quinn had three years of Glee Club to know her place, and she was an ensemble background sway-er and an occasional group-soloist at best. At least when it came time for the big performances. Just getting through ‘Edge of Glory’ without fainting was considered Quinn’s feat of the year! 

“Let’s go, Princess,” Blaine says, eyes sparkling with an absurd amount of cheer. “We need people looking at your beautiful face in order to elevate this disaster of a wedding.” 

Torn between taking Blaine’s outstretched hand and sitting here with the Gossip Girls, Quinn hovers with indecision for only a minute, until Blaine loses patience and grabs hold of her gently, steering her up and out of her seat. 

“See you guys in a bit,” Quinn sighs, as Rachel seal claps with her enthusiasm and Mercedes offers a grinning thumbs up. 

“Kill it, girl! Start us off strong!” 

Quinn didn’t want to start things off at all. She chose a very jazzy cover an already mellow and poppy song made famous by Dusty Springfield. Tabitha, who listened to the song more than once when Quinn practiced it, was only too happy to point out that this sixties icon of bubblegum pop later came out as a lesbian. Quinn has since decided to ignore the irony. 

The song ‘I Only Want to Be With You’ certainly isn’t meant to be taken seriously. It’s retro-light, and she had initially hoped the safe and sugary choice would give her placement in the lineup that was right in the middle, right when she and everyone else were appropriately buzzed enough to appreciate the nostalgia.

Her song was NOT a show-opener, and Quinn is entirely too sober to just roll with it. 

“Blaine, isn’t this a little sudden?” She manages to grit through a well-practiced smile, gripping her friend’s hand a little too tightly as he leads her away from the table and through the crowd in the direction of the stage. “I haven’t even had a chance to warm up my vocal chords.” 

“Well, that’s not what I heard!” he responds back immediately, and chuckles to himself. “I heard you had quite the warm up in your car in the parking lot!” 

It takes an impressive amount of self-control not to grab hold of Blaine’s lightly powdered nose and tweak hard. “You’re one to talk.” 

“Touché.” The squeeze he gives her is far from comforting. “Relax, you’ll do great.” 

“Hold up, Elton!” Santana, the tongue-massager in question, steps suddenly in front of them, eyes narrowed and mouth a flat line. “Where are you going with my girl?” 

In her hands are two flutes of champagne. Quinn gratefully grabs hold of one and downs it like a shot. 

Somehow it gives her brainfreeze. That does not help. 

“It’s time to start the performances!” Blaine says cheerily, like this is somehow rehearsed. “And Quinn’s got the perfect song to kick things off.” 

Santana’s dark eyes flicker from Quinn’s pleading expression to Blaine’s cheerful grin. A perfectly trimmed brow rises. “Does she?” 

“She does,” he confirms. “I think you’ll like it very much.” 

“Shut up, Blaine!” Quinn snaps, because now she’s remembering the lyrics and … yeah… she’s now going to be singing this song, with these words, to this woman in front of her. If infers much more than she thought it would at the time she chose it. 

“I’d wish her luck!” Blaine adds, undeterred, and Quinn decides that she needs it. She hasn’t sung live in front of a crowd this massive since they presented Mr. Schue with his _Teacher of the Year_ award and even then it was just a line in an ensemble song. God, she hasn’t done an entire song since… 

Prom, last year. In an instant she’s transplanted, dressed in a purple dress with a vision in red beside her, legs weak and balance shaky, as a warm hand grip sat her waist and the entire senior class of McKinley High stares at them with their jaws agape. 

The history here… the déjà vu… 

It’s hard to miss. 

Have they really come this far? 

“Good luck, Quinn.” The pressure of a warm kiss sinks into her skin, lingers on her cheek. Quinn sucks in a breath of air as she holds Santana’s gaze. Santana toasts her with her own champagne flute, but her expression is warm and confident. “Don’t break a leg, okay? I don’t want to hold you up this time.” 

In return for that fabulous piece of advice, Quinn gives Santana her middle finger. 

Santana laughs her ass off in return. 

\--

The stage is a flimsy little thing, made to be quick to set up and quick to dismantle, and Quinn can hear the creak her heels make as they make their way across it. She and Blaine grab attention easily as the band picks up their instruments and the DJ lowers the volume of the song currently blaring from his speaker. 

Blaine, dapper and gorgeous in his well-fitted tux, steps up to the mike and begins with an intro that is almost embarrassing in its enthusiasm. He calls her a ‘vision’ with ‘a honey of a voice’ and plays the part of a 1940’s band leader with such perfection he may as well be in black and white. 

“Here she is, the lovely Quinn Fabray!” he finishes and claps harder than anyone as he turns away from the stage and beckons her forward. 

Yep, here she is. Quinn Fabray, with an accelerated heartbeat and a crooked smile on a mouth perfectly lined with lipstick, gazes over the crowd of unfamiliar strangers and well-known classmates and teachers. She’s got the band at her back and the microphone so close to her mouth she’s pretty sure it’s catching every little unsteady breath she’s taking. 

“Hi,” she says, and winces when she notices the tremble in her voice. Why is she so nervous? 

She feels naked on the stage. Quinn had meant for this party to be her coming out moment, a reflection of her evolving persona and a tribute to the depths of rapidly growing feelings for her best friend and sometimes worst enemy. But at the time she thought there would also be a wedding, and the focus of that wedding, the bride and groom, would be here too, with all the attention on celebrating them and their love. 

This is attention on a different level and yes, Quinn Fabray always catches attention no matter what she does, but this… 

People are staring at her now, not just Santana, or Rachel and Mercedes, who have been joined by Tina and are now all holding hands and grinning up at her like well-meant groupies, or even Brittany, who’s open indifference has shifted to something that looks very close to anger as she stares up at Quinn’s face. There’s people who only know her as Quinn Fabray, that poor girl who had that baby, or that poor girl who was in the wheelchair, or that bitch who had them slushied, or the slut who got kicked out of her father’s house. 

This crowd, this TOWN, is full of familiars who think they know her because they know about her and it’s not true at all. Quinn has no weapon against them. There’s nothing she can do but look right back. 

Helpless, her focus darts to where her date has an ankle twisted and all her weight shifted on one very high heel. Santana’s expression is anything but comforting. Instead, her lover smirks, wearing a grin that looks, of all things, stupidly saucy. 

“You got a little something on your face,” she mouths, and presses deliberately at the spot on her own cheek with a red painted nail. 

The very spot where Santana’s kiss lingered just before Quinn climbed up on stage. With her bright red lipstick that Quinn knows from experience, transfers VERY easily. 

The flush of horror that envelops her is mortifying as she slaps her hand on her cheek and hears the audience erupt in laughter. “Oh geez,” she breathes, and it’s stupid because she can’t even see it, but everyone else can. The entire room can see the blotch of red, Santana’s kiss imprinted on her cheek, stuck on her body like a very visible tattoo.

Santana Lopez just grins wider, and deliberately blows her a kiss. 

She’s proud. Of course she is. Quinn’s been practically branded, and had anyone not already known who she came with to this wedding, well… they damn well do now. 

Santana’s made sure of it. 

Quinn could be furious. She could be humiliated. Oddly, she’s suddenly neither, because her date is SANTANA, and of course Santana would pull a stunt like this. This is what Santana does. 

So Quinn does what she does, and rolls her eyes as she utters with a droll sigh into the microphone, “I’m sorry about the beauty mark here, but my date is a bitch.” 

The laughter roars once again, and there’s a smattering of applauses and claps as Santana shrugs at the response and nods because yes, yes she is. 

“And now that the comedy bit is done…” There’s nothing else to do but wave her hand behind her. “Hit it.” 

Reliable and professional as always, the band begins the song. It’s a good arrangement. She knows it is. Quinn initially chose it because she felt it matched Mr. Schuester and his pixie-like fiance’s sappy courtship, but they’re not here, so Quinn can only sing for herself, starting out slow, giving the music a bit of a jazzy feel to encourage some depth. 

The song fits her limited voice, and though Quinn will never stand out among the stronger voices in the room, she knows she won’t embarrass herself either. 

So she loses herself into the music, bobbing her head as the guitar begins to strum and waits for her opening. 

“ _I don't know what it is that makes me love you so_ ,” she begins, a light, velvet croon that melts into the music smoothly. “ _I only know I never want to let you go… 'Cause you started something, can't you see? Ever since we met you've had a hold on me._ ” 

Helpless to her own heart, Quinn finds Santana once again. The smirk on that proud, bitchy face grows gentle, and Santana actually nods at her, swaying slightly to the beat. She’s beautiful and she’s obviously proud. 

The open approval brings a flush to Quinn’s cheeks. 

“ _It happens to be true… I only want to be with you.”_

It’s a silly song, disposable and easy to digest, like popcorn. This is no Amy Winehouse, or Adelle with haunting lyrics and a blistered edge, but as her voice ghosts over the crowd and her eyes connect repeatedly with Santana’s, the lyrics take on an entirely deeper meaning, haunting in their truth. 

This doesn’t feel like a performance… 

This is a serenade. Quinn is a woman who is obviously in love, and unable to do anything BUT sing at the person she adores, who smiles and nods and stares at her like she knows it and appreciates it. 

_“It doesn't matter where you go or what you do, I want to spend each moment of the day with you…”_

And though her song and her heart can only focus on one person, she begins to see how her performance has affected the crowd. The guests have begun to smile, either knowing the song or enjoying it all the same. Even Sue Sylvester, out of place and yet completely at home in her bridal gown, simultaneously rolls her eyes and mouths the words at the same time. 

_“Look what has happened with just one kiss, I never knew that I could be in love like this. It's crazy but it's true, I only want to be with you.”_

Someone hoots, and there’s another round of applauses. Santana grins at her, breathtaking with her sparkling eyes and her beautiful face, looking cheesy and stupid and everything Quinn never thought she would ever be for her. 

It’s Valentine’s Day and Quinn is HAPPY, and that’s reason enough, she thinks, to turn this failure of a wedding into a celebration of love. 

She needs this song to match the fast pace of her heart. “Okay,” she laughs, and rolls her hand in a ‘speed-it-up’ motion to the band behind her. “Let’s make this a party.” 

And they do. They seem almost thrilled to do it, and suddenly the song goes faster and the crowd roars it’s approval. This is the pace it’s meant to be played, with giddy lovesick intensity. Rachel, Mercedes and Tina at the edge of the stage, have already drunkenly started their own choreographed shimmy, and unable to help herself, she waves them up to the stage. “Come on!” 

Those three are always ready for a performance and they waste no time, giggling like Greek Muses as they rush up to the stage and take their place behind Quinn, falling into a sloppy waist dip that is embarrassingly fun to watch. 

It’s intoxicating, how this slow, jazzy number has turned a corner into an infectious rhythm that has the guests laughing and the dance floor filling up. Her friends shake and shimmy behind her and Santana looks horrified at the display… Quinn can’t help but get caught up in the silliness of it. 

And so she points directly at her lover, hips shifting enthusiastically as she belts out the chorus, “ _Now, listen, honey, I just want to be beside you everywhere… As long as we're together, honey, I don't care… 'Cause you started something, can't you see… Ever since we met you've had a hold on me…No matter what you do, I only want to be with you.”_

It’s ridiculous cheese. Santana’s hands are pressed to her mouth and her shoulders are shaking, but eyes sparkle with mirth and proud satisfaction, head shaking as she’s nearly thrown off her feet by the hip-check that Kurt gives her as he presses his fingers into her cheek. She shoves him off and laughs up at Quinn. 

_“No matter what you do,”_ she sings along with Quinn from the floor, both fingers pointing straight at her. “ _I only want to be with you.”_

It feels like an answer to a question that Quinn has been waiting for, and though her heart warns her that nothing will ever be that easy, that _this_ can’t be that easy, Quinn’s caught up in the romanticism of it, and points back, offering a blown kiss to her lover and best friend. 

The room is with her and Quinn is in her element, Santana’s kiss branded on her cheek and the song coming out of her mouth the soundtrack to the celebration of her romantic heart. 

\--

The song ends and the room fills with laughter and applause. Her impromptu backup singers all come together, grabbing hold of her arm and forcing her into a bow. With a myriad of giggles, they drag her down the stairs as Blaine and Kurt set up for their duet. 

“Woah, guys!” she snaps, because they’re almost TOO enthusiastic, and she almost trips down the unsteady stairs of the stage. 

“Sorry!” Rachel whispers, and then grins. “But that was so much fun!” 

“It was so much fun!” Tina agrees, and then points a finger in Quinn’s face. “But what the hell is it about Santana that has everyone so in love?! Can you actually tell me that?!” Quinn blinks, caught offguard by Tina’s sudden glare, when her friend seems suddenly distracted by the movement on the stage. “Actually, hold that thought! Blaine!” she hollers, and then she’s gone again. 

Quinn doesn’t have to time to even register where Tina went, because the woman in question has arrived to her side, hands sliding possessively around her waist and a painfully amused smile glittering on pleased, perfect red lips. 

“That was quite the bubblegum showstopper, Quinn Fabray,” she pronounces, and uses a cocktail napkin to wipe at Quinn’s cheek. “Looks like the Head Cheerleader still knows how to turn on an audience. Fuck off!” she adds for Mercedes and Rachel’s benefits, who immediately offer a combined ‘aww’ at the scene. 

Quinn’s fingers spread against Santana’s biceps, forehead falling against her cheek in quiet mirth as Rachel decides to take offense. “I’ll have you know that your date was absolutely amazing!” 

“Oh was she?” 

“She was absolutely amazing and you know it,” Mercedes adds. “Not that we weren’t too bad ourselves. Still got that choreo-down, don’t we Rachel?” 

They start actually recreating the dance, this time to the beat of Kurt and Blaine’s eighties song on stage. Quinn squeezes Santana softly, regaining her attention. 

“I do believe I was promised a drink,” she whispers playfully. “Shouldn’t you be working on getting that for me?” She’s s giddier and more flirtatious than she’s been tonight, but Quinn’s heartbeat is quick and excited and she’s high off her successful performance and the sweetness of this reunion. Perhaps the sudden bossiness is an unintended side effect. After all, no one has ever accused Quinn Fabray of being low maintenance. 

“Oh?” Santana’s brow arches even higher, not missing the change in attitude. “I do believe that someone gulped her drink down not five minutes ago.” 

“I think after a performance like that, someone deserves another one,” Quinn responds just as quickly. 

“Someone’s got a really big head.” 

“Oh, does she?” 

“Little bit,” Santana says, and her smile is bright and white and too toothy to be genuine. “I don’t gots time for it, Quinn! Maybe you should get me one!” 

The flash of annoyance that comment gives her spurs an immediate response. “If my date is too busy to get me a drink then I can very easily find someone who will be more than happy to fill in.” 

Santana’s smile falters, and Quinn winces. 

Shit. 

She’s gone too far. It’s far too easy to fall back into their regular dynamic, competitive and insulting, and Quinn hates that she went with it. Her threat is an empty one and she hopes, more than hopes, that Santana will know that. Their relationship is tentative and sensitive, and just the suggestion … 

Santana is worried about infidelity. They both are. It’s their mutual sore spot, she with her professors and fawning acting students and nameless drunken Facebook smooches and Santana with her… Brittany. 

This will be something that they can NEVER joke about, least of all today. 

“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, and tightens her hold on Santana, trying hard to salvage the giddy mood. “I really am.” Santana hasn’t let her go quite yet, thank God. Quinn tests her luck by reaching forward to press a chaste kiss on Santana’s suddenly pouty lips. “That was out of line.” 

This relationship isn’t official, nearly yes, but not yet, and it’s with Santana. They relate to each other a certain way yes, but she knows Santana’s weaknesses better than anyone and there are certain ‘tricks’ she can’t use. Not on her. 

If there’s one thing Quinn has learned in their tumultuous courtship, is that honesty is best when it comes to Santana. 

Santana’s expression is closed, but she absorbed the comment and the kiss. “Yeah it was,” she agrees, mouth twitching with displeasure. 

“I’m a bitch,” she says immediately. “And I didn’t mean that.” 

And maybe that’s enough. Quinn’s trembling heart gets a reprieve as Santana sighs, and her palms open to slide against Quinn’s shoulders, bringing her in tighter. 

“You’re lucky you’re a gorgeous bitch,” she says quietly and with a smile she leans in to claim another kiss, this one longer and not at all chaste. Maybe they’re causing a scene, but Quinn doesn’t care. She smiles into the embrace and exhales in relief as Santana loosens her grip and rolls her eyes. “I’ll be right back. With another drink for my date.” 

Quinn nods. 

“If I hadn’t just witnessed that I wouldn’t have believed it,” Mercedes announces suddenly, hooking her arm through Quinn’s elbow and resting her chin affectionately on Quinn’s bicep. “But did you and Santana actually have a minor snipefest that didn’t end in mutual slappage?” 

“Mmm,” Quinn mutters back, and gives her friend a pat on her hand and a slow smile. “Crazy, right?” She blinks when she realizes Mercedes is missing a drunk friend. “Where’d Rachel go?” 

“She got Finn-stracted,” Mercedes says and waves her hand to that lost cause. “Seriously though, this thing with you two is kinda serious, isn’t it? You looked really terrified.” 

It’s unsettling that Quinn is that open about this. “I like her, Mercedes. And believe it or not, sometimes people do actually grow into better versions of themselves. You said it yourself, didn’t you? This isn’t high school anymore.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” interrupts a smooth voice. Quinn’s heart drops, her breath stops, and she’s frozen in the wake of the unexpected person who interrupted the conversation and now stands directly in front of them. “Quinn Fabray gets what she wants at the expense of all her friends. I think it’s exactly just like high school.” 

Quinn’s spine stiffens, and her smile falters. 

Brittany S. Pierce will never be as beautiful as Quinn, that’s what Quinn’s mother has told her anyway. Quinn still isn’t sure she believes her. Quinn’s facial symmetry is manmade and therefore almost perfect, but Brittany wears her flaws with grace and joy. She’s magnetic and her confidence is enviable, and Quinn hates that she understands exactly why Brittany holds such power over the people she seduces, her date not excluded. 

“Hi, Brittany,” she begins, and straightens her spine, hoping like hell she can get through this with as much dignity as she can. 

“Hi, Quinn,” Brittany responds. Those beautiful blue eyes bore straight into Quinn, but it’s the moisture behind them that strikes Quinn deep. 

This isn’t exactly a surprise. Quinn understands that this is not easy for Brittany. As much as she want to tell herself (and has told herself) that what has happened between her and Santana is only about the two of them, it’s naïve to think that Brittany doesn’t factor into this somehow. She’s their mutual best friend at least in name, and Santana’s very recent ex. She’s openly declared her affection to Santana to both Santana and Quinn herself. And yes, maybe if Brittany hadn’t already broken up with Sam, this would be a different situation, but the reality is that Brittany chose Santana, and yet Santana is here with Quinn and not here. 

Quinn understands what it feels like to not be chosen. There are men in this room who have broken her heart and left her because of various reasons and yes, she was not innocent in any of them, but that doesn’t chase away any pride or hurt. 

She didn’t understand Finn then but she understands it now. Her laser focus has been on Santana, and she has purposely ignored what their little displays of affection would do to Brittany. It was too easy to take Santana at her word and believe that Brittany had just accepted this. 

She’s not sure what kind of friend that makes her, to flaunt her happiness in front of Brittany despite the awkwardness and residual heartbreak, and it’s terrible because she still cares. 

They should be friends. 

Judging by the look in her eyes, Brittany knows that they’re not. 

“Nothing’s changed, has it Quinn?” Brittany asks, tone steady and terrifyingly cheerful. “You got your happy ending, and I guess that’s what matters, right?” 

“Brittany…” 

“Stay out of this, Mercedes,” Brittany snaps without missing a beat. “I’m talking to Quinn.” 

They’re catching attention now, guests and students nudging at each other and looking in this direction. Eagers faces that know their history and understand what it means to have Brittany and Quinn looking at each other when Santana has so obviously traded partners. 

“Brittany,” she begins, and doesn’t know what to say. “We can go somewhere… we don’t have to make a scene…” 

“No, it’s okay! Because that’s we do, right? We’re the Unholy Trinity and we share everything. We’ve all made out with Finn. We all made out with Sam. We all slept with Puck the same year, why should be girlfriends be any different? Santana can just be one more thing we get to share.” 

“Brittany,” she hisses, the heat flushing up her neck. “Just stop-“ 

“And let’s be honest, we both know that Santana is just another prop for you. She’s your new look. Cause the Ryan Seacrest Tattoo was getting old, and the Yale thing is just kinda stale, and we’re out of high school guys so … You’ve even given her her very own collar to wear, right Quinn?” 

Instinct overwhelms her, and her hand goes flying. 

“Quinn!” Mercedes tries to stop her. She’s not quick enough. 

The slap that stings Brittany’s cheek shocks even her. Brittany is startled, hand on her face as those blue eyes take Quinn’s furious expression in. 

Oh… shit. 

“Brittany,” she begins, regretful and ashamed. 

“Brittany!” Sam appears suddenly and tries to pull Brittany away. 

The touch spurs Brittany into action. “No, Sam!” she snaps, and jerks out of his grasp. With a red face and one last look at Quinn, she swivels on her heel and heads fast for the exit. 

Quinn’s palm stings as her eyes lift to meet with Sam’s. The look he gives her is miserable and resigned, before he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns away from them all. 

To her credit, Mercedes says nothing. 

“Shit,” she hears behind them, some random nobody that catches her glare and immediately turns away, melting into the crowd. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“What the fuck just happened?” she hears, and turns miserably as Santana approaches with two champagne flutes in her hand. “Quinn?!” 

Quinn doesn’t know what to say… or what to do. 

“Brittany mouthed off is what happened,” Mercedes says suddenly, holding tight to Quinn’s arm as she defends her to Santana. “I mean Britt’s my homegirl, but if you ask me, she got off easy.” 

Santana’s eyes are clouded and dark as she glances at the entrance of the hall and then back at Quinn. “Did you have to hit her?” she asks, angry and overwhelmed. “Did you?” 

“Santana…” 

But Santana only shakes her head, disappointed and obviously devastated, and shoves the glasses she’s holding into Quinn’s hands and turns on her heels. “I’ll be back.” 

Regret rises into her throat like bile. “No, Santana. I’ll go talk to her –” 

“No, Quinn,” Santana shakes her head fiercely but her eyes finally connect with Quinn’s. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about the three of us. This is about me and Brittany, so let me.” Her eyes soften, and there’s a moment, just a moment, where Quinn feels her heart tremble at the resigned sadness in Santana’s expression. “I’ll be back, okay?” 

There’s no time for acceptance. Santana is gone, chasing in Brittany’s direction, and Quinn hates that despite Brittany’s sneer about Quinn getting exactly what she wanted, she’s pretty sure that this was EXACTLY how Brittany wanted it all to go.


	22. The Heart of the Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s almost a year later, but here’s an update! There are a multitude of excuses I can give for the delay, but they’re all ones I’ve given previously and they all stand. That being said, I hope you enjoy this update, and what I can promise is that the next one won’t be a year from now.

There’s an awkwardness that hangs in the air, but Quinn has to give credit to these party guests. Maybe it’s because the reason anyone is here at all is a failed wedding reception but in comparison, attention to her in the aftermath of Santana’s absence fades rather quickly. It’s not long before the crowd begins to disperse and the music resumes. Strangers and friends alike slip off to dance or huddle in their own groups, siphoning off until the only person left by her side is Mercedes. 

“It’ll be fine.” Mercedes’ smile is soft as she squeezes Quinn’s arm gently, keeping her close. “Santana will calm Brittany down and then she’ll be back before you know it.” 

It’s an absurdly optimistic view, but Quinn doesn’t trust herself to contradict it. She swallows hard against the lump in her throat and nods unsteadily. “Right,” she says, voice hollow as she gently extracts herself. “Thanks, Mercedes.” 

“You know how this goes.” Mercedes clucks her tongue in recognition. “It’s not like love triangles in the Glee Club are anything new.” 

No, definitely not for Quinn. And they’ve never exactly ended well for her, either. 

The two glasses in her hands nearly filled with cheap wedding champagne taunt her. Staring at them makes her feel foolish, like a kid being stood up at her first big school dance. 

“I’m gonna go and put these down.” Her tone is rough, but she manages a smile for her friend as she lifts the glasses. “Want anything while I’m at the bar?” 

Mercedes’ dark eyes are clouded with concern, but to her credit, she only shakes her head and lets her go. Mercedes is one of the wisest friends she has, and understands that all Quinn needs is a moment to be alone to get better control of herself. 

Those friends are few and far between, and Sam demonstrates that completely when he sidles up beside her as she arrives at the bar. Quinn does her best not to acknowledge him, instead focusing her attention on placing one of the champagne flutes on the bar. The other, she keeps in her hand, stem twirling with her fingertips. It gives her something to do. 

“Buy you a shot?” he asks, brow furrowing as his elbow rubs up against hers on its journey to rest against the wood of the counter, accidentally putting his jacket on a wet spot and immediately jerking it away. 

Quinn only rolls her eyes and hands him a napkin. “I’m good, thanks.” 

She’s polite and curt, dismissive as soon as he plucks the napkin from her hand and fumbles with his wallet, handing his own (presumably fake) ID to the bartender. She keeps twirling the champagne glass, eyes on the way the bubbles travel up the rose-colored liquid. 

Objectively, she knows Sam is attractive – everyone knows that, including Sam. He fixates on it, just like she has, and just like her, it’s easily the focus of his own deepest insecurities. She wonders if that’s why they initially bonded so quickly, mired in shallow self-image and so focused on their physical appeal, both alone and together. Ken and Barbie. 

“You sure?” It’s odd that she finds him so unappealing now. She stares at him, searching for the boy she once thought she loved, and finds only a young man who reminds her of a boy, as he requests a beer and blows out his breath in one long whoosh, smacking his hands together as he turns back to her. “ ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it didn’t seem to take very long before you got left behind.” 

Quinn’s fingers tighten automatically around the glass she’s still carrying. “Don’t,” she warns. 

He flinches, gaze darting from the Quinn and her icy glare, to the beer that’s placed in front of him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, immediately reaching forward to trace his fingers across the wet condensation of the bottle. “I just… look, I guess I know how it feels.” 

He wants her to engage him. He wants commiseration and sympathy. Sam’s had his heart broken and he sees someone he thinks he understands. Quinn doesn’t have patience to indulge him. “Sam, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I just… I know you’re into Santana, okay?” 

Quinn rolls her eyes, cheeks flushing red. “Considering we’re here on a date together, yes, it’s obvious to the entire room, Sam.” 

Sam’s fishy lips press tightly together. “And you know I care about you… I always have.” Quinn can only huff in disbelief, lifting the glass to her lips and letting the liquid paint her tongue. “I don’t want you to be like me… to fall in love and then find out you’re just some stepping stone for someone on their way back to their soulmate.”

The champagne tastes sour in her mouth, bubbling it’s way down her throat. It takes effort to swallow it down. “My situation isn’t like yours, Sam,” she replies easily, shoulders straightening as she places the glass down and turns to face him completely. She stands tall, eyes clear. “So thank you for your concern, but there is no need.” 

He chuckles, a short, bitter harrumph that smacks of disbelief. 

“Santana cares about me,” she says, voice steady, strong. 

“Brittany said she loved me,” he counters easily, shrugging in easy dismissal. “Brittany married me.” 

Her patience snaps. “Yeah, well we’re not all idiots who need the end of the world in order to get laid, Sam.” 

Sam stares at her quietly, absorbing the insult. “No, some of us are just idiots holding their date’s champagne while she runs after her ex.” 

He mock toasts her, and moves away. 

\--

Doubt, if given the opportunity, can fester. Quinn knows this. She has learned quite a bit from therapy, and Gold help her, even from David, who, it turns out, is a terrible person but not actually a terrible professor. What Sam is attempting is actually pretty transparent. On the surface, the similarities are clear, and misery loves company. 

Or maybe he actually, truly, honestly believes that they’re in the same situation, set up for the same heartbreak. Sam always did like to be the hero. And he’s basing this belief on the Santana and Quinn he remembers, not the ones that exist now. 

That’s the problem with Lima. It’s isolated… small. It’s easy to pretend nothing exists but this little bubble of a world if you stay in it long enough. 

And yes, Quinn’s had her own doubts. Her heart has been beaten and battered over the last few months over Brittany and Santana, and yes, she feels bruised by it. Maybe a month ago, Sam’s needling would have worked. Even now, it would be too easy to fall back into her old habits, run after Santana with glistening eyes and determination. 

But Quinn’s world lies beyond Lima, and she has memories that Sam doesn’t know about. They include sitting side by side with a broken, crying girl on Christmas Eve. Waking up in the middle of the night and turning to find soft brown eyes shining at her through the darkness. A drunken first kiss followed up by a tender, passionate one a few days later. 

Sharing a joint in Kurt and Rachel’s loft, laughter mingling with mutual affection and lust. A New York skyline and the voice of Rachel Berry singing in her ear as Santana presses in behind her. Intimate whispers and naked emotion on New Year’s Eve, as they’re curled together in a hotel room in Chelsea. 

She remembers the mistakes as well. Fear and uncertainty leading her to a med school party and a lot of liquor… lips pressed against a girl she barely remembers. Brittany’s cold, hurt voice slicing into her ear in the aftermath. 

She remembers honest conversation and the overwhelming feeling of fear when Rachel called to let her know Santana was missing, which turned immediately into relief when she discovered Santana in her hallway. 

The familiar possession that grips her every time she holds Santana in her arms, determined to protect her from the world. 

These are nothing but moments… moments outside of Lima, a tapestry of memories that serve as a reminder that the reason she’s in this ballroom alone is not because she’s anything like Sam. 

Sam’s reality is that he is a rebound – part of Brittany’s journey to her own self-awareness. He is a casualty of Brittany’s own fear and an attempt to move on that ultimately failed because Brittany has yet to deal with her own reality. Brittany has yet to discover that she isn’t Peter Pan, but Wendy. Brittany and all her eccentricities will never be content with just Lima, with just puppy love. Still waters run deep within her, and a pregnancy scare served as a grim awakening that she needs more than what Sam and his sweet, dumb sincerity can offer her. Sam is sweet and simple, too simple to be anything but a patch for a complicated conundrum like Brittany Pierce. 

Is Quinn a rebound? It doesn’t feel like it. While Sam and Brittany made end-of-the-world promises to each other, called themselves soulmates – Quinn did everything she could to avoid promises she knew neither she or Santana were in any position to make or keep. This relationship isn’t one forged on high school romance, but the reality that comes from discovering life isn’t marshmallows and fluff, and maybe for some, it never will be. 

Yes, in this room, it may look like Quinn Fabray has been left behind, an awkward hurdle to the inevitable perfect union of Brittany and Santana, but months of dealing with her own uncertainty and personal growth tells her that appearances are already deceiving, and no opinion matters but hers and Santana’s. 

So Quinn Fabray keeps her shoulders square and her head held high, ignores her trembling heart and lets herself forget the awkwardness as she shimmies with Mike Chang, fluffs Ryder’s hair as he dances beside her, nearly tripping over his feet to copy Mike’s much more fluid style. 

It passes the time, and makes her thirsty enough to seek out the bartender for a glass of water. 

“A pretty girl like you?” he asks, bored enough to flirt. “You sure you don’t want more than that?” 

Quinn arches a brow. “I’m good, thanks.” 

He sighs, staring at her as if she’s a complicated equation he can’t quite figure out, and hands her the glass. “Well, how about one for the road?” he asks, and gives her the champagne she didn’t request, offering almost as a toast. 

“Oh is that for me?” 

The quiet tone that sounds like a viper’s hiss comes out of nowhere. Quinn sucks in a surprised breath when a tan, slender arm reaches into her line of vision and smoothly steals the glass from the bartender. 

Santana now stands beside her, eyes cold as she glares at the man, lifting the glass she’s pilfered in sarcastic thanks. “Appreciate it. Maybe next time though, you stick to doing your actual job instead of hitting on women who are obviously not interested.”

A small smile curls on Quinn’s lips. She turns to the bartender, currently doing his best impression of a gaping fish, and drops a two dollar tip on the counter. “Thank you for the champagne. Me and my date appreciate it.” 

With that, she dismisses him. 

Quinn wants to believe she has matured as a person, and yes, every bit of confidence, hard earned through both therapy and introspection, has helped immensely in this waiting game. But the sight of Santana tangible… real… and standing in front of her causes her hear to tremble in immediate relief. “Hi,” she says breathlessly. “You’re back.” 

She’s stating the obvious, but Santana doesn’t seem to mind. A tight, sincere smirk floats across her lips as she reaches up to softly swipe the back of her fingers against Quinn’s cheekbone. “Don’t look so shocked,” she teases. “Someone has to save you from overconfident bar toads. Besides,” she adds, softer than before. “I told you I was coming back.” 

Yes… yes she did. 

From what? Curiosity is a terrible beast, and Quinn, like her inner Alice, cannot help but stare into the rabbit hole and wonder exactly what went on inside of it. Yes, Santana is smiling, but her make up is freshly applied, and the whites of her eyes are stained with hints of red… puffiness surrounds them that Santana’s best makeup cannot conceal. 

“What happened?” Her fingers lift instinctively, and Santana immediately ducks back, avoiding the touch as she winces. 

The moment is jarring. 

“Nothing. It’s fine.” The snap is too fast, too chipper. Quinn’s fingers hang in the air uncertainly, before her chest constricts. 

“Right,” she manages, head lowering as she turns away. “Okay. Sorry.” 

Is she that fragile, that this one rejection is all it takes for every doubt to come shifting back in? 

She keeps her attention on the dancefloor as she lifts the glass to her lips and takes another sip. “Quinn.” The water glass is lifted from her fingers. Digits curl over her wrists and turn her back, until there is no place to look but a vulnerable, wide-eyed woman with remorse on her face. Santana’s mouth trembles, and then her breath comes out in one long rush, and possessive palms slide against her waist and pull her in close. Santana whispers, “I’m sorry,” but the words are muffled, Santana’s face hidden against her collarbone. 

She holds Quinn tight. Her body shakes slightly. 

Quinn has no room left for self-doubt. What comes instead is that same protective instinct that comes so easily around Santana. She holds Santana closely, in so tight she wonders if Santana can hear the way her heart trips with affection. 

“Okay,” she whispers back, and presses soft lips against Santana’s temple, feeling the sigh Santana gives in reaction. “So I’m assuming you don’t want to talk about it, then.” 

After a moment, Santana’s head lifts, expression obscured by the bangs that float into her face. Quinn easily brushes the strands away, revealing those beautiful dark eyes clouded with unshed emotion. 

It’s a tender moment that Santana allows, almost keens into, before her head shakes ever so slightly. 

Quinn nods. 

The music changes. Quinn glances to the stage to see Mercedes in the center of it, beginning a hauntingly beautiful ballad cover of ‘The Heart of the Matter’. The lyrics, Quinn realizes, in the simple naked away they are sung, are more beautiful than she ever realized. 

“ _An old true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone_ ,” Mercedes croons in her pitch perfect tone. “ _She said you found someone…_ ” 

Also, they’re incredibly sad. 

“That’s a completely inappropriate song choice considering the situation,” Quinn finds herself uttering, earning herself a harsh laugh from Santana and a grateful squeeze. 

“Yeah, but she’s killing it.” 

Quinn hums her agreement. She’s tender, fingers grazing Santana’s naked biceps, keeping her close as they watch Mercedes serenade the couples who sway together on the dance floor. 

“ _What are these voices outside love's open door, make us throw off our contentment_ ,” Mercedes eyes close, inhabiting the song with pure emotion. “ _And beg for something more?_ ” 

“Brittany went home.” 

Santana’s expression is carefully closed. Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. 

“Oh.” 

Brown eyes meet her own, and a trembling smile forms that seems to grow steadier the longer Santana can hold it. “She’s okay…” she says haltingly. “It’s… okay.” 

Quinn isn’t sure if the reassurance is meant for Santana or herself. 

“ _I'm learning to live without you now… but I miss you sometimes._ ”

Her lover is shaken. Quinn is anxious… awkward… torn between her instincts as a best friend to press into the matter and the reality that as the third spoke in this love triangle, it’s no longer her place. 

Her world has shifted… there is no map to this journey. 

“ _The more I know, the less I understand… all the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again._ ” 

Santana’s expression shifts… her eyes darken as she lingers on Quinn. Another step forward and Santana’s lips are pressed softly against her mouth, a soft kiss that lingers. Santana inhales against her, soft and fragile. 

“It’s okay,” she repeats. 

Quinn’s eyes grow moist. Not trusting herself to speak, she can only nod. Santana takes her by the hand and leads her to the center of the ballroom. They have to maneuver the dancefloor like an obstacle course, ducking under a drunk and gropey Rachel and Finn, Santana pushing aside Artie’s flashing wheels with her heel as he rolls around with Ms. Pillsbury’s niece, ducking to avoid being smacked by an overenthusiastic body roll by Sam. 

They find a spot near the stage. As Santana slips again back into Quinn’s arms, Quinn finds herself glancing up to catch Mercedes’ smile, eyes glassy with emotion as she winks down at her before she’s lost again in her powerful, haunting words. 

“Hi,” she hears, and looks down to meet the gaze of the beautiful woman, who stares at her with her lingering sadness and tempered hope. She stares at Quinn as if she’s in love, and Quinn, besotted, who can usually find a thousand reasons to hold back, cannot think of one. 

Tenderly, she drops her forehead against Santana’s temple and keeps her close. “Hi.” 

Quinn’s never slow-danced with a woman before. 

There’s a soft exhale against her neck, a tantalizing brush against her jaw, and a warm kiss pressed just under her ear. 

She likes it. 

\--

Beautiful ballads are traded for standard cheesy wedding songs, and when Quinn’s foot gets trampled for the second time during an over enthusiastic rendition of “YMCA”, they give up and take shelter in the foyer just outside the ballroom. 

Fingers tangled loosely together, Quinn and Santana sit on carpeted stairs and joke about the guests that filter in and out, now drunk and foolish as the party nears it’s close. 

In an attempt to cheer up Santana, Quinn’s encouraged them falling back into their old high school bitchy selves, comfortably snide as they quip about Tina’s obvious obsession with Blaine, and Kurt’s clear relapse with the twink twin as the pair attempt to sneak past them. 

“Ladies,” Blaine says, hands digging in his pockets. “Have a good night!”

“You first,” Quinn drawls. Kurt blushes furiously but drags Blaine by the hand, skipping up the stairs that lead to their assigned block of rooms. 

“Be safe, Blaine!” Santana calls after them. “And Kurt, show him that thing I taught you with the banana.” 

“Shut up, Santana!” he bellows back.

\--

Twenty minutes later, they’ve counted at least three more Glee couples who have made the trip up the stairs. Well technically two. Artie and Ms. Pillsbury’s niece, understandably, went for the elevator. Interestingly enough, Rachel and Finn were among them. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be stopping that?” Quinn asks her date, bemused when Santana says nothing as Finn and Rachel move past them. 

Santana quietly shakes her head. “And miss the opportunity to throw this in her face for the next six months? I’ve been saving a few ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a beak’ jokes so…” 

The answer is classic Santana… and it’s one that Quinn would normally take at face value, were it not paired with a somber expression and twitching fingers. 

Quinn thinks she understands. There was a wide smile on Rachel’s face… on the arm of a man she once considered her true love. Maybe this is nostalgia, confusing lingering affection for true love… maybe Rachel just wanted a night to forget and be happy. 

In the end… that’s up to her. 

“Well it is a wedding…” she sighs, and then corrects herself. “At least it was one. And on Valentines Day.”

Clichés exist for a reason, and Quinn isn’t innocent of that. She has her own hotel keycard in her purse, her own hopes for how this night - a first date with a woman she was incredibly infatuated with on the most romantic day of the year, at least according to capitalism – would end. 

She imagined this night ending with mutual laugher and deep, wet kisses, the kind she’s come to crave and expect when she spends time alone with Santana. 

She and Santana certainly have enjoyed each other. 

Instead they sit on luxuriously carpeted stairs, sipping water and tangling fingers, low intimate murmurs that smack of the friends they once were. 

Santana leans her head back against the wall, studying Quinn with an expression that seems both intensely focused and somehow far away. “She’s just really sad, Quinn.” 

Brittany. Brittany, who is never far away from them. Who is away from this wedding, alone and sad and probably drowning in her own regret. 

Quinn’s smile fades. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” 

Fingers squeeze her own immediately. “Stop,” Santana hushes, gruff and matter of fact. “Shit happens. And no one knows Brittany better than I do.” Her mouth twists into a sad, crooked smile. “If you slapped her, it’s because she deserved it.” 

Quinn exhales slowly, turning Santana’s long fingers in her hand to spread her palm wide, tracing the lines she finds there. “How do you know that?” 

“Because every time you slapped me, I sure as hell deserved it.” 

Quinn smiles morosely. “I think part of me thinks you liked it…” she teases. 

Santana smirks at the taunt, teeth digging into her lower lip as she contemplates that. “Maybe…” she muses. “Maybe you liked it when I slapped you right back.” 

Quinn isn’t sure that’s necessarily accurate, but she’s self-aware enough to understand that Santana’s passion is a major source of sexual attraction. 

There are a thousand words that need to be said between them, labels and messiness and the complication of Brittany S. Pierce, who still haunts them as the third of their Unholy Trinity. 

But here they sit, together on Valentine’s Day, fingers tangled loosely, friends and lovers and a mishmash of whatever else is in between. 

Maybe right now the labels don’t matter. 

Quinn lifts tan fingers to her mouth and presses a gentle kiss to the skin she finds there, nibbling softly enough to drag teeth against fingertips that she once remembers drunkenly tasting. 

Santana’s breath goes unsteady. Her mouth opens slightly and her chests heaves. “God,” she whispers. “You drive me insane, you know that?” 

The feeling’s completely mutual. 

\--

Quinn uses the keycard. 

The instant she does, she’s pushed on the bed and straddled, lips brushing against hers before the kiss is deepened. Santana’s mouth is firm… her tongue is wet… open palms hold Quinn’s head in place as they exchange hungry, languid kisses. 

Santana hums against her, a guttural reaction to Quinn’s taste that grows louder still when dresses are unzipped by wandering hands, and sheets become rumpled with exertion and shifting bodies. 

Santana’s eyes are moist… her lips are swollen with Quinn’s kisses… and when presses Quinn back against the bed and lowers herself until her mouth is opening enthusiastically against Quinn’s wet folds, it’s only when Quinn’s hands are tangled in hers and she’s whispering Quinn’s name against her clit, that she allows Quinn to come. 

\--

Later, much later, Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep. Their limbs are so tangled that Quinn finds herself wide awake, but she doesn’t mind it. Instead, she considers a moment months ago in a choir room… honest words laced with venom exchanged between two young women lost to expectations and a wide open world they didn’t quite understand. 

The world has shifted for them both. There is no venom… when Santana’s open palm slaps her skin… it’s her ass, and it’s in the throes of passion. 

And yes, they’ve made love, but this is no Harlequin novel. Santana’s nails stung her skin as she arched beneath her and Quinn’s teeth have left marks on Santana’s inner thighs. 

It will never be marshmallows and fluff for them. 

Quinn wonders how it ever could… why she would ever want it… when it began with a slap. 

\--

“If Puck came up to you right now…” Santana’s voice is thick, words slurred as her lips press against Quinn’s chest, just above her left breast, keeping her close. “And he told you that you were soulmates… everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. What would you do?” 

Quinn’s body is sated, drugged with her orgasm. Bones heavy, she’s sunken into a luxurious bed with a naked woman on top of her. She takes in the question and keeps her eyes on the ceiling, watching the moonlight shimmer in through the open window. 

“Probably try and get him tested,” she responds dryly. “Because he’d obviously be high.” 

Santana stays quiet above her, chin digging into her skin as she absorbs the comment. 

Curiously outside of herself, Quinn finds herself asking, “Is that what Brittany told you?” 

It’s long moment before Santana shifts, readjusting herself until breasts pillow against her own and dark eyes shine frankly at her. “Yes.” 

Quinn’s eyes water, because yes, of course she did. Her heart trembles and she digs fingers into dark locks, watching helplessly as Santana leans into her touch. 

“She said what you and I have doesn’t compare to what we had.” 

Frank and to the point… confident and probably correct. What Brittany and Santana had was unique and different… marshmallows and fluff. 

But her fingers keep moving, sliding soft messy strands back against Santana’s scalp, unable to stop even as the tears glisten in her eyes. 

The bulldog charm rests against Quinn’s chest, buried between them both as the silver chain glimmers against moonlight. 

“It scared the hell out of me, Quinn.“

“Why?” she manages, voice gruff and shaky. 

A tear drifts down Santana’s cheek, leaving a trail of moisture that Quinn quickly thumbs away. “Because I realized she was right… all those months ago… I did leave her behind.” 

Santana’s hand lifts until it’s covered Quinn’s, keeping her palm pressed up against her cheek. 

“Do you love me, Quinn?”

The question cuts through the stillness. 

“Yes,” Quinn admits, broken and on a precipice. “I love you.” 

Santana inhales… a choked, heavy sob that follows immediately by a rush of words. “I love you.” 

Quinn’s heart is precariously intact, and this time, when her world shifts, it feels only like it’s been waiting for this exact moment to shift into place. 

“Okay…” she breathes, soft as she pulls Santana’s chin down and exhales against her lips, wet cheeks smearing moisture against Santana’s lids. “Okay.” 

Santana’s laugh is fragile beauty. “Bitch,” she whispers brokenly. 

They’re in love. 

Santana kisses her, lips soft and firm, and suddenly it’s easy to believe.


End file.
